Daddy's Favorite
by Dzeytoun
Summary: One is the Boy Who Lived, the other the Greatest Wizard in the World. They are watched by all, friend and enemy. And in the wake of Harry's disastrous fifth year, everybody has an opinion.
1. The View from the Greenhouse

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating – PG 13

Category – Angst/General

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter One:  The View from the Greenhouse

Most people do not understand the demands of living things.  Sometimes I think that Hagrid and I are the only two members of the Hogwarts faculty who truly realize and feel the needs of living, breathing magic, as opposed to the kind of sterile manipulations of force and substance practiced in so many arcane disciplines.  Thus many of my colleagues expressed surprise when I told them I had work to do in the greenhouses tonight.  After all this is the evening of the Leavetaking Feast.  And with that creature Umbridge gone, surely it is a time to relax. 

But living things have needs that must be met.  My Compass Roses are in need of rebedding, and that cannot be put off.  Why if I were to let it go within a couple of days the poor dears would be totally unable to find North! (Or South or East or West for that matter).  So I have changed my dress (although I pay very little attention to fashion anyway, and even less these days than I once did) and set to work.

I am not alone in the greenhouses.  Several of my Hufflepuffs have decided to work here rather than attend the feast.  It brings back too many bad memories of poor Cedric, does that particular ceremony.  I don't blame them – I would not have attended myself were I not required.

"Professor Sprout?"  The voice is soft and tentative, but familiar.

I look up and smile at Rebecca.  She is a seventh year, and was one of Cedric's dearest friends.  I think she finds her work in the greenhouses and gardens to be a kind of memorial to him.  Accompanying her are her boyfriend, Richard Ruddigarp, and their friend, Christopher Arlinor.  All are among my Hufflepuffs.  "Becca," I greet her, "Richard, Chris, I hope you are ready for the graduation ceremony."  

"Yes we are, Professor," Chris allows.  He is a tall, thin handsome boy, by far the boldest of the three.  "But it is very ... upsetting.  In some ways...."

"Don't get us wrong Professor," Richard cuts in with his nasal tones, "we loved Cedric.  But is some ways this year is even more frightening."

Yes it is.  After what happened at the Ministry, there can be no doubt – not that I ever had any.  I have known that You-Know-Who has returned from the moment I layed eyes on poor Cedric's body, almost exactly a year ago.  Accident indeed!  The Ministry is staffed by fools, and I don't give a rotten fig if many of them _were _Hufflepuffs!

"I know my dears," I say.  I rise and remove my dirty gloves, spreading my arms to embrace them each in turn.

"Professor," Becca says softly, "Marlene is still not doing well."

I sigh.  Marlene is one of our three Shining Marigolds.  They are the centerpiece of the small memorial garden some of my Hufflepuffs and I put together to Cedric's memory in the back of one of the older greenhouses.  Shining Marigolds are wondrous and beautiful, but notoriously hard to tend.

"I know my dears.  She needs someone to take her under their wing.  With you three graduating, I don't know who in the House to turn to."

"Well," Becca says, "we were kind of thinking..." The three look at each other and share a mutual nod.  "We were thinking that maybe Neville Longbottom might be able to do something with Marlene.  He is so good with difficult plants!"

"That he is," I say slowly.  In fact saying he is good is quite the understatement.  He actually got a _Mimbulus mimbletonia _to to the vocalization stage in less than a year!  I have never been able to do so well myself. "But he is also a Gryffindor."

"We know Professor," Chris says softly, "but we have talked it over in the House and well ... this is supposed to be a memorial for Cedric.  If Neville can help, it seems stupid not to ask just because he isn't a Hufflepuff."

"Is this the consensus of the House?" I ask.

"Of all of the House who are interested in Herbology, Professor," Becca squeaks.  

I realize that the greenhouse has grown silent.  All my other Hufflepuffs have paused in their tasks and are listening.

"My darlings," I say, trying to take in all of those present in the greenhouse, "I am so PROUD of you!  That is a thoroughly professional attitude!  And a tribute to your feelings for Cedric."

My Hufflepuffs shuffle around and look abashed.  I mean every word I have just said.  My pride for them is so great that I feel I shall burst.  I go to each of them, one by one, for it is obvious they were all planning this, and give each a hug and a small kiss.  

In truth I had been planning to ask Neville if he might see to Marlene, but I had not known how to broach the matter.  The memorial was by Hufflepuffs for a Hufflepuff.  But the Shining Marigold needs someone to care for her and Neville ... Neville has a great gift, the greatest I have seen in many years.  That my Hufflepuffs have accepted his gift and decided to ask for his help without my prodding is something I had not dared dream.

I am really so very, very proud of each and every one of them!  It takes so much maturity to admit that someone else's gift in your beloved practice is greater than your own!  And to accept that in one who is not even a member of your own House....

It is a generally denied truth, but an iron truth nonetheless, that all teachers have their favorites.  Neville is one of mine.  I have been taken with his sweet personality and his marvelous talent with herbs and plants since his first year.  It has sometimes been awkward for me, what with him being a Gryffindor and all.  But now I am humbled by the generosity of my darling Hufflepuffs.

It is a strange fact of our times that most of our favorites are congregated in the rising sixth year class.  Well, life is often odd that way.  Still, most of the professors have taken to students in their own houses.

Snape, for instance, I reflect as I finish my rounds and return to my roses, constantly sings the praises of Draco Malfoy.  I have never been impressed with that particular Slytherin – his lack of affinity for living things is so great that he cannot even tie Sparkler Vines without making a thorough mess of it.  Hagrid tells me that even flobberworms don't seem to like young Malfoy – and I've never heard of a flobberworm having hard feelings toward anybody.  Even Severus can handle them with ease!

Still, evidently Draco has a great talent for potions – although why anyone would have any interest in manipulating dead substances according to dry and unimaginative rules I have no idea.  Of course I am prejudiced.  Most potions masters have little knowledge or appreciation for the true nature of the ingredients they acquire from me.  Snape is slightly better than average in that regard – but only slightly.

Minerva McGonogall, on the other hand, has a pronounced soft spot for Hermione Granger – the Gryffindor with the head of a Ravenclaw.  Why, in the girl's third year Minerva actually talked the Ministry into letting Hermione use a Time Turner to maximize her ability to attend classes.  A Time Turner!  I shudder to think what Minerva must have gone through to do that!  Even Aurors are not allowed routine access to those devices, and with good reason.

I smile at the thought of Minerva browbeating some poor functionary in the Department of Mysteries.  What we won't do for our favorites!  I have always found Miss Granger to have a superior mind but an extremely pedestrian sensibility, at least with regard to herbology.  An analyst she certainly is, an artist she certainly is not.  But I do not begrudge Minerva, who is after all a Transfigurations teacher and thus given to favor the analytic mind, her opinions.

That thought brings up more troubling reflections, though.  I bend my attention to my bedding.  Unfortunately, it is a routine, if necessary, task, and does not monopolize my attention.

_Albus, why can't you see you are making a fool of yourself?_

We all have favorites, it is true.  Somehow, though, I had innocently thought Albus Dumbledore to be above such things.  Little did I know.

I used to dismiss Snape's fuming about Dumbledore's favoritism towards Harry Potter.  Snape is a bitter, hard man.  He dislikes Gryffindors in general, and I sense there is something in his past that makes him dislike Mr. Potter more than most.  But lately...

It has been a hard year on everyone, I know.  It has been harder on Harry Potter than most.  I like Mr. Potter, I really do.  He does not have the mind of Granger, but his instincts are better ... although not approaching those of Neville, of course.  Like everyone, I have been deeply impressed, awed in fact, by his accomplishments over the years.  And the fact that he was with Cedric when that dear boy died means that Potter will always have a friend and ally in me. But....

_I might as well admit it._

But I cannot help but resent the fact that he makes Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard in the world, a man I admire and esteem, act like a lovesick puppy.

That is unfair.  I know it is unfair.  I have never, ever seen any sign that Harry Potter deliberately encourages Albus' ... infatuation ... nor have I in fact seen much sign he is even aware of it.  But I can't help but feel just a tiny bit hard toward Mr. Potter for his effect on the great Albus Dumbledore.

I have noticed it over the last couple of years especially.  It is absolutely impossible now to have a real conversation with Albus in the Great Hall.  His eyes are locked on Harry Potter, following his every move.  The only time Albus looks away is when Potter actually looks up.  And that is not very often, given that he is a teenage boy with all of the teenage boy's self-absorption.

Albus has taken to making excuses for walking around the grounds, always staying in the shadows where the students will not see him, his eyes always following Potter.  And when Potter is not around ... ye gods.

It used to be possible to have an exchange of more than five sentences with Albus about school affairs without the name "Potter" entering into it.  Not any more.  The man knows no other possible subject of conversation.  And it's getting worse.  It used to be at least "Mr. Potter this" and "Mr. Potter that."  Now it's "Harry this," and "Harry that."  I don't go to his office anymore if I don't have to.  If I hear another oration on "Harry's" bravery, cleverness, and generally superior nature to every other breathing being I think I will have to go to Poppy Pomfrey for mental counseling.  Even the portraits are commenting on it!

Worse, the students are beginning to notice – especially the Ravenclaws, who are far too clever for their own good.  Two weeks ago I heard a Ravenclaw sixth year girl make the remark, after watching Albus all through dinner, that "I just hope Dumbledore doesn't spy on him in the shower."  I descended on them in a points-taking wrath that would have done Severus proud.

But I know what they mean.  I have no suspicions about Albus' behavior towards his favorite – if Albus is anything, he is rigidly ethical.  But his behavior is beginning to be embarassing.

_Admit it, you also don't like it that Harry Potter does not notice how Dumbledore watches him_.

That is true.  It is yet another unfair feeling.  Albus goes to great lengths to keep Potter from knowing he is being watched.  But when I look at that great man staring ever more obviously at a teenage boy, the look on his face over the years growing through benign interest to concern to open pride to something that is uncomfortably close to adoration, I want to scream.

"POTTER YOU DUNCE!  WOULD YOU BOTHER TO LOOK UP EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE AND NOTICE THAT THE GREATEST WIZARD IN THE WORLD IS UTTERLY ENTHRALLED WITH YOU!"

As I said, absolutely unfair.  It doesn't mean I don't feel that way, though.

And tonight, tonight was the worst.  Harry Potter did not come to the Leavetaking Feast.  He had very good reason, I have been quietly told, not to come.  Certainly he has been through enough this year to have the privilege of skipping a boring ceremony.

But when I saw the look on Albus' face when he noticed Potter's vacant spot at the Gryffindor table I wanted to march to Gryffindor Tower and slap the boy ... what is that marvelous expression the muggles use? ... into the the middle of next week.  It is bad enough to watch Albus follow Potter with his sight, but to see his gaze locked on an empty seat with an expression in his eyes like a teenage girl who has been jilted at the Yule Ball – it was almost more than I could take.

Well, I think as I finish rebedding the Compass Roses, the summer at least is upon us.  And perhaps I can get Harry Potter off my mind for a while.

It is the first time I have ever found myself in agreement with Severus Snape.

And that is yet another very unfair reason I have the tiniest of hard feelings towards Mr. Harry Potter.


	2. The Lioness and Her Cub

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating – PG

Category – Angst/Drama

A/N:  Sorry it has taken me a while to update.  Just a few replies to my kind reviewers:

Bellatrix/Ariel:  I understand what you are saying when you question whether Dumbledore would be so obvious and whether the Ravenclaws would notice when Hermione did not.  However, Hermione had lots on her mind during fifth year, and as she is nearly always close to Harry the measures Dumbledore takes to hide his scrutiny from Harry would apply to her as well.  Also remember that fifth year was an especially worrying time for Dumbledore, as he had to monitor Harry for possession by Voldemort in addition to everything else.  This would probably drive him to taking risks he would not have taken in other years, hence bringing himself to the notice of the Ravenclaws. Finally recall that Sprout not only has known Dumbledore for years but sits near him at the High Table.  What seems obvious to her might well not appear so to others.

Everyone:  I am glad you found my characterization of Professor Sprout – something of a cipher in the books – to be believable.  Remember though that we are seeing things very much from her POV.  It is likely that some of her comments about Dumbledore and Harry are skewed from fact by her emotions.  Indeed, she admits as much herself.

Now, on to another POV.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Two: The Lioness and Her Cub

I never thought I would see a Leavetaking Feast sadder than last year's.  I will never forget the black decorations and Albus' toast to Cedric Diggory.  

I was wrong.

Oh, the decorations were livelier this year, but the mood ... well, I suppose controlled and barely repressed hysteria is the best description.  After all, Voldemort is back, God may never have been in his Heaven, and all is decidedly wrong with the universe.

So I am looking forward to my brief meeting with Albus tonight.  Ordinarily I would never dream of bothering him on a night like this.  But time is running out and affairs are pressing.  We must take advantage of every moment from this point until ... the end, whatever that might be.

"Lollipops," I whisper, opening the way to the Headmaster's office.  Albus' weakness of confectionary passwords is one of the solid rocks of my existance.

I enter his office and stop in shock.  I have not been here in the last several days, since before the tragedy at the Ministry.  He had told me briefly about his confrontation with Harry but...

_Either Albus is redecorating or Harry was much angrier than he let on._

I have never seen the room so bare.  Usually it is crowded with instruments of various kinds – most delicate and expensive.  Tonight you could hold waltzing lessons in front of the Headmaster's desk.

"Ah, Professor McGonogall," the corpulent portrait behind the desk greets me, "I'm so glad to see you."  Many of the other former Heads mumble similar hellos.

"Hello Martin," I manage to smile.  Martin Sloane has always been one of my favorite former Headmasters, "Where is Albus?"

"In his sitting room," he gestures to his left.  "You have to talk some sense into the man!"

"About what?"  I move over to stand in front of the desk.

"I have the greatest admiration for Mr. Potter, we all do," there is a general murmer of assent, "and we know he had experienced a terrible shock, but to let him speak to the Headmaster like that..." Martin shakes his head.

"What did Harry say?"  Albus has just told me briefly that Harry and he had worked through an "intense" conversation on the night of Sirius' death.  I can imagine the intensity must have been high.  For Sirius to die like that....

I despise crying, at least in public, and if I keep thinking of poor Sirius – and for that matter poor Harry – I will get started.

"Screaming like that..."

"Hello Minerva," Albus' voice easily cuts over Martin, who subsides grumpily.  Albus is standing in the door of his sitting room and beckons me forward.  "Please join me."

_Harry?  Screaming?  Albus said nothing about that!_

I enter the room and get another shock.  The table is piled high with pieces, parts, and components of various instruments.  I am not an expert on this kind of thing, but I recognize bits of at least three different delicate – and extremely expensive – instruments.

"Albus, did Harry...?"

"I'm afraid so," his expression is as sad as I've ever seen it, "the boy was ... almost out of control.  For a moment I considered using my wand."  He sighs heavily.  "I'm glad I did not.  He would hate me more than he does already."

That goes right to my heart.  Of all the teachers, I am the one who best understands how Albus feels about Harry.  In fact I share most of those feelings.  And I have my own suspicions about this year which, if true, mean that I have a great deal to be guilty about myself.

"The portraits say he was screaming."  I reach over and rub his shoulder lightly.  He looks so tired, and so old.

"He was," Albus says quietly, "he even said he did not want to be human anymore if it meant feeling like that."

"Albus!"  I feel tears burning my eyes.

Suddenly he smiles.  "Nothing wrong with him physically though."  He looks at the broken instruments and chuckles.  "If we can't get him back as a seeker he would make a marvelous beater with all that arm strength."  His blue eyes twinkle a bit.

I'm not sure I would take it quite so lightly, considering the expense of the instruments strewn in pieces on the table, but like him I feel my heart rise at the thought.  

"What can I do for you Minerva?  You mentioned you wanted to go quickly over the Prefect reports?"

"Yes Albus."  This is a necessary chore I thought we could get out of the way quickly so as not to have to deal with it later when things with the coming war grow pressing.  "Especially our two fifth years, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.  I thought if you could sign the reports tonight, I could do the rest of the paperwork in the morning, before the staff Leavetaking Luncheon."

"Excellent planning as always Minerva.  Anything of great import?"  He begins to scan the papers quickly.

"The older prefects continued their superb performances as you can see."

"Wonderful, and the younger ones?"  He glances at me over his spectacles and smiles.

"Mr. Weasley was somewhat nervous and a little awkward in group situations, but had improved markedly by the end of the year.  Hermione, as you can see, was excellent – better even than either of the sixth years."  I smile.  I have to admit that I have a soft spot in my heart for Hermione, who in some ways reminds me of myself at that age – although I was not quite so bright.

"Wonderful!  I had every faith that Harry's friends would not let us down." 

That irritates me a little.  It is true that they ARE Harry's friends certainly.  It is also true, if I force myself to admit it, that Ron Weasley probably owes his prefect badge to that fact.  But Hermione deserves a little more recognition than that.

"I was particularly impressed," I venture, "that Hermione did such an excellent job without a drop in her grades."

"That is indeed a great achievement.  We are quite lucky to have such a brilliant student."

Exactly the right thing to say.  Why am I still not satisfied? There is something about the way he said it.  Something offhand that does not sit quite right.

"I am looking forward to seeing her O.W.L. scores."

"As am I.  I am sure they will be extraordinary."  He smiles again.  But again something is not quite right.

"Did I tell you that she has mentioned an Auror's career?"  That is only one of the careers she mentioned, but I want to test something.

"Did she?  I am sure she would make a splendid Auror!"

Once again exactly the right thing to say.  And once again something is somewhat wrong.  What is it?

"I imagine," Albus continues, "that Harry would be glad to have someone like Hermione with him in the Corps, if he should become an Auror."

"Yes," I say, "when he becomes an Auror."  I have promised Harry to see to help him achieve the required results for admission to the Corps if it kills me, and I have every intention of doing so. Still something is bothering me.

"Harry as an Auror would be quite a sight," I say. 

"Oh my yes," Albus chuckles again and continues to re-arrange parts.

_That's it.  The twinkle.  The famous Dumbledore eye twinkle.  _

I feel silly.  I feel foolish.  I feel absolutely ridiculous.

I also feel mildly angry.

The legendary twinkling light in Albus' eyes seems to dim when he mentions Hermione.  It is especially noticeable because it shines so brightly whenever he talks about Harry.

Albus.  I know you love Harry.  I love him too.  Considering that you left him with those damnable muggles for reasons you've never explained to me, I have moments when I think I love him MORE than you do.

Then why am I angry?  Well, not angry.  Irritated.

"I wonder what kind of O.W.L. scores Harry will get," I say, more to keep the conversation going than anything else.  "I dare say they won't be as good as Hermione's."

"Oh certainly not," Albus acknowledges, "although I would be stunned if he does not get an Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts.  Possibly Care of Magical Creatures and maybe even Charms.  But for the rest certainly not as well as Ms. Granger.  But then tests are generally a poor indicator of worth anyway."

That is absolutely true.  He and I have had that conversation many times.  And I know he did not mean that to be a back-handed slap at Hermione.  But I can't help but notice that his eyes twinkled at the mention of Harry's probable performance, while they did not when talking about Hermione's probable much superior showing.

I should be going now.  Tomorrow will be a busy day, and I need to corner Hermione before she gets on the train and force her to divulge some details about Harry's experiences with Dolores Umbridge.  If what she says confirms my suspicions, I may well need a strong shoulder to weep on come this time tomorrow night.

Still I don't move.  I know Albus does not mean an insult.  I know he respects my feelings for Hermione.  I know I am being obsessive.

But I can't help it.

"Do you plan to put everything back in working order?" I indicate the pieces and components scattered on the table.

"What I can, although much of it is ruined beyond recall."

His eyes twinkle.

I am beginning to get more irritated than is wise, strickly speaking.

"You know," I try desperately, "Hermione may well set a record for performance on O.W.L.s.  At least for recent performance."

"I would not be surprised.  Ms. Granger's abilities are quite stunning at times."

No twinkle.

"Are you sure you won't be able to fix everything?"  I worry that Albus might recognize the disjointed nature of my conversation, but I hope he will attribute it to tiredness.

"No, not everything.  When Harry has a tantrum he does quite a thorough job."

Twinkle.

I draw in a sharp breath.  Then let  it out slowly.  Just what was I planning to say?  Was I planning to shout at him for unfairness.  What has he said that is unfair?

Absolutely nothing.

It's just that his eyes shine when he talks about Harry breaking expensive and possibly irreplaceable pieces of magical equipment, and they don't when he discusses the possibility of Hermione setting a record on O.W.L.s.

Just what am I supposed to say?  "Twinkle damn it?"

"Well good night Albus."

"Good night Minerva."

I walk slowly down the stairs.  My irritation is rapidly seeping away, but some of it remains.

Albus, I have admired you for decades.  You are my leading light as to what a teacher should be.

I have no doubt that were Hermione in need, Albus would rush to her aid.  I have no doubt that he is genuinely proud of her.

I also have no doubt that he will never regard her the way he regards Harry.

We all have our favorites.  It is a fact.  In truth, Harry is a favorite of mine as much as Hermione, although in a different way.  I can argue with nothing that the Headmaster has said.  

And yet.....

Couldn't you have spared a little twinkle Albus?  Just a little of that wonderful shine of yours?

I know the answer.

I adore Albus.  I always will.

But tonight he became in my eyes just a little less than he had been.

All of this over a twinkle?  All of this over a shine in an old man's eyes?

Sometimes it is hard to know what the important things in life are.  The twinkle in Albus' eyes is one of them.  I hope Hermione learns that kind of lesson.  I sometimes worry she spends too much time with books and not enough with life.  That is one reason I am glad she is friends with Harry and Ron.

But I hope she does not learn it when she is standing before Albus with Harry.

Life is often cruel.

I never thought Albus' eyes would be.

I was wrong.


	3. A Father's Plea

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating – PG 13

Category – Angst/Drama

A/N: Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers.  I have gotten several comments as to whether I did not make Minerva a bit harsh in the last chapter.  I don't think so.  Frankly I think McGonagall does have a rather abrupt and harsh, even unjust, side as seen when she takes points from Harry in OOTP and when she penalizes the Gryffindors 50pts apiece for being out after curfew (surely something that happens rather frequently) in SS/PS.

            Also with regard to Dumbledore and the twinkling eyes, I believe that is one aspect of Dumbledore's appearance that is largely unconscious.  That is he decides carefully what to say, how to move, etc., but the expression in his eyes is determined by inner factors.  The reason his eyes twinkle when he thinks of Harry destroying his office is simply that Harry as a person gives him a feeling that Hermione as a person does not.  Whether or not he approves of the given actions either takes does little to alter his basic reactions to them as individuals. Which, I think, is the way most people are when we come down to it (especially when dealing with people about whom who have strong feelings).  The basic fact is he has strong feelings of affection for Harry that he does not have for Hermione, and his eyes, in this fic, are what give him away.  Also remember that, as with Sprout, Minerva has known Dumbledore for many years.  It is likely that a difference apparent to her would be unnoticeable to someone else.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Three: A Father's Plea

29 June, 1996

Albus,

Have I ever told you I am afraid of you?  It is quite true.  Anyone with much sense is afraid of you a little.  And I have never had the kind of courage that would lead me to face a roaring lion when there is no need.  So I am writing this to you because, to my shame, I should say it to your face but I have not got the nerve.  I've never been one for direct confrontations.  I leave that to Molly.

But since I am writing and not speaking I can take the time to expound a bit.  It is Leavetaking Day, Albus – or rather the night after Leavetaking Day.  I love Leavetaking Days.  Ever since our children started Hogwarts some years ago, one of my favorite traditions has been a jaunt to the station to pick them up, followed by a happy ride home and a long evening over one of Molly's most elaborate and lovingly-prepared meals.  I often am not able to buy my beloved one's the things I would like them to have, but I try to make sure that the comforts of love and family are never in short supply at the Burrow.

This Leavetaking Day was very special, as you know.  For one thing, we finally confronted the Dursley's about the way they treat Harry.  I have had a slow fire burning in my belly for years over that, especially since I saw with my own eyes their attitude towards him.  Poor sweet child. I understand Albus your reasons for wanting him to stay with the muggles.   Still I wish you would relent and let him come live with us.  What would one more mouth to feed mean in this house?  And we love him as much as one of our own anyway.

I am especially grateful to Harry for what he has done for my Ron.  I have always worried about Ron, buried as he is under a pile of older brothers, all of whom are over-achievers in one way or another.  I had hoped he might find his own friends and identity at Hogwarts.  I think meeting Harry on the train was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to Ron.  The love that has blossomed between the two of them has given him the support that he so desperately needed – and that I was never able to provide, what with work, constant financial problems, and the demands of six other children.

Of course it isn't easy being the best friend of The Boy Who Lived.  I am glad that Hermione is there as well.  Certainly she can be intimidating in her own right, but in the wizarding world magnificent grades don't hold a candle to a lightning shaped scar.  And if I am not mistaken, she regards Ron as something more than a friend – even if Ron doesn't know it yet.

And yet, I still worry about Ronniekins.  I never call him that of course – and I wish his mother would not use the name so often.  But in my heart he will always be my baby boy.  This year was a very good year for Ron in so many ways.  He became a prefect.  He became a hero on the Quidditch Pitch.  He was one of the heroes who forced Voldemort into the open.  Yes it was a very special year.

But you see Albus, Ron understands something very important, and that understanding hurts him very badly.  Ron's glory is the glory of reflection, or of absence.  He is able to stand out because he is Harry's friend, or alternatively because Harry is not around.  He is a star to Harry's sun, and he knows it.  He knows even his glories of this year were because of special circumstances.  He knows in his heart that he was made prefect because he is Harry's friend, and because for some reason of your own you thought it best if Harry not wear the badge himself.  He knows he became a hero at Quidditch largely because Harry was banned – and banned for defending our family honor!  He understands this, and it eats at the foundations of his confidence like termites eat at a muggle house.

The worst part about it in some ways is that the love between he and Harry is so strong.  He loves Harry so much that most of the time he doesn't think to be resentful.  And Harry, mostly, does not begrudge Ron what glory he does get.  You know, I don't think he even remembers most of the time that Harry is the Boy Who Lived.  To him he is just his beloved friend, closer to him than any of his brothers.  I know for a fact that most of the time he does not remember that Harry is rich.  It would be funny if it were not so heartbreaking.  Ronniekins of all my children feels the sting of being poor the most.  He resents it the most.  He struggles against it the most.  And yet I honestly believe that he hardly ever remembers that all of the things he longs for could be his at any time, if he just asked Harry for them.

But he won't ask, of course.  Ron is too proud for that.  Or perhaps he is too weak.  Perhaps his self-worth could not stand gifts from Harry.  I know Harry worries about that.  Why else would he buy Ron new formal robes and tell the twins to pretend like they are a gift from them?  Oh, Ron believed it – because he wanted to believe it.  But Molly and I knew the truth.  I love all my sons dearly, but the twins are just not the types to be that sensitive to Ron's needs, much less that tasteful and restrained in filling them.  No, those robes were paid for from Harry's vault.  And after seeing the look on Ron's face when he first wore them, I can say that whatever happens in the coming war, Harry Potter will always be a hero to my family.

And what does all this have to do with you Albus?  I am writing you to ask for the thing dearest to any father's heart.  I ask for Ron's happiness.  I cannot give Ron the confidence he needs, the validation he needs.  You, the mighty Albus Dumbledore, could.  With just a negligible effort you could grant him the strength he needs to hold onto the self-worth he is building so tenuously. Give him a little attention.  Just one brief meeting would do it.  Just one nod from the great Dumbledore – just you and him.  Just let him know that he matters because he is Ron, not because he is Harry's friend.  You could do that couldn't you?  Just fifteen minutes for a sixteen-year-old boy who needs you badly.  Harry would not begrudge Ron fifteen minutes of your affection.  Ron has no aspirations to stand in your affection as Harry does.  Just fifteen minutes Albus.  I am asking it for my son.  As one father to another, I'm begging you to help before the wound inside Ronniekins gets larger.

As one father to another?  Yes, that is the other reason that I am writing you Albus.  You hold the happiness of Ron in one hand.  You hold Harry's soul in the other.  And I am afraid, so very afraid Albus, that you are on the verge of strangling that soul out of existence in the name of caring for it.

When did you become a father?  I wonder about that.  I suspect you wonder too.  I first noticed it last year.  It was the week after Harry's encounter in the graveyard.  We had assembled for our first meeting of the Order.  And even as you came into the room I felt it.  I could almost smell it coming from you.  Fear, Albus.  You were terrified.  

You had just realized what had happened, I am guessing.  After all the excitement died down you suddenly had a thought.  Harry might have died.  Harry almost did die.  And you became so scared that your very bones ached.  

It was obvious for the rest of the summer.  Every time we talked about bringing Harry out of Privet Drive you had some excuse, some plausible reason why we could not do it right then.  And all the time you were sending off waves of fear like some emotional tuning fork.  Not just any fear either.  It was a special kind of fear.  The fear only a parent knows.  The fear that comes when nightmare scenarios crowd into your brain, when visions of your child suffering latch onto your thoughts.  I think you had loved Harry for a very long time Albus, probably since the first time you saw him.  But now you began to truly UNDERSTAND that you loved him.  At it was tearing your proverbial guts out.

Your life has changed, hasn't it Albus?  I bet that you find yourself watching Harry, unable to take your eyes off of him.  I wager that every movement he makes has significance for you.  I certainly know that you can't open your mouth without talking to him.

Have you become fascinated by his skin Albus?  Does the thought of bruises or cuts on his flesh make you cringe?  Does the sight of actual blood coming from his skin make you so sick you think you will vomit?

You've been cursed Albus.  It's a very common hex, called the "Daddy Curse."  I've been through it seven times.  It is the absolute fascination with your new child.  The inability to take your eyes away.  The terror at the thought of pain coming to this sweet life.

You are a little unusual in that your new baby happens to be fifteen years old and the savior of the wizarding world.  Other than that you are just like any other bedazzled new Daddy, constantly watching his child, constantly singing his praises, constantly reaching for photos when you meet colleagues.

You have entered a new world Albus.  You see when you become a father the very order of the cosmos shifts.  Reality reweaves itself.  To be a father is to look on your child and know that this child MUST NOT be hurt, MUST NOT die, MUST NOT suffer.  And not just because of moral imperatives, but because it is against the very laws of the universe itself.

But the problem Albus, the thing I fear, is that almost inevitably the Daddy Curse becomes just that.  You see in our haste and desire to protect them, we hurt them.  Oh yes we can hurt them badly.

You would not think it looking at them Albus, but teenage boys are like tropical flowers.  They are wild and vibrant and breathtakingly beautiful.  And they are so fragile the smallest wind can damage them.  For all their strength and loveliness, a teenage boy can be broken in one hand be someone who knows where to apply pressure.

I know.  I broke one.

You have done it, haven't you Albus?  I saw that look in your face when you talked about Harry last.  I saw the look on Harry's face when he got off the train.  You wanted so badly to protect him, to keep him from harm.  And you have hurt him badly.

Oh it isn't a rare thing.  Ask any parent.  Stop almost any muggle on the street and they will have a story about how they hurt their beloved child when they only wanted to protect them.  Yes, it is the most ordinary, plain, understandable thing in the world.  And it makes the Cruciatus Curse seem like a hangnail.

Welcome to the world of fatherhood, Albus.

I broke my Percy.  Before all heaven I did not mean too.  I love him so much that to think about what happened that day ... I would rather face a white-hot iron.  But I broke him.  He was the middle child you see.  Neither the oldest nor the youngest.  And that put him in a more insecure position even than Ronniekins.  He tried to deal with it by becoming "Perfect Percy."  Oh yes, I know what his brothers called him, and there was some truth to it.  But underneath it all he was only a frightened, insecure boy who needed to be loved.

And yet I yelled at him Albus.  I argued and pounded my fist on the desk and said things to him that I wish I could cut out of my brain with a razor blade.  I knew he was making a mistake you see.  I had to protect him.  I had to stop him from taking that course of action.  I had to.  And I hurt him so badly he does not talk to me any more.

And Percy came from a loving home.  He did not spend ten years under the stairs.  He did not have to live with people who starved him and neglected him.  He was so much stronger and healthier than Harry, and I am so much weaker than you.

Harry is fragile Albus.  He is fragile and cracked and wounded.  For all his bravery and cleverness and luck he could break into a thousand fragments if not handled delicately.  And you are swinging sledgehammers in his direction.  In order to protect him you cut him off from emotional support when he needed you the most.  In the name of treating him like he deserves you have told him something that is eating at his soul.  I don't know what it is, but I am sure it has to do with the prophecy.

I am not saying you should not have told him whatever it was.  But I do fear that you have set in place a series of events that you cannot understand.  I fear that one day you will look down at those iron fingers of yours and see only bloody fragments, and then your heart will be rent like it has never been torn before.

And yes, I worry about Ron in this too.  If you break Harry, Albus, Ron will shatter as well.  Oh, it may not look like it.  But inside him something will die, and my baby boy will become a walking sore.

I also worry about Ginny.  Despite what she likes to proclaim at the moment, Harry Potter is the constant infatuation of her heart.  She may convince herself differently for brief periods of time.  But in the end the bond forged between them cannot be waved away by shifting moods or emotional games.  If Harry is broken, I think Ginny might die in a way even more profound than Ron.  There is even a chance she might literally perish.

So as one father to another I'm imploring you, Albus.  Please be careful.  You are the greatest wizard of the age.  You are the champion of light, the greatest headmaster in the history of Hogwarts.  You are the leader of what is good and righteous.

But when it comes to being a father, you don't know what the Hell you are doing.

Arthur Weasley


	4. The Sorrows of Lucifer

Author – Dzeytoun

Rating – PG

Category – Angst/Drama

A/N:  This takes place after Severus' confrontations with Albus in the first chapters of my fic HERE BE MONSTERS.  These are his reflections on the night of Saturday, 29 June, 1996.  This chapter also exists as a standalone fic.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Four:  The Sorrows of Lucifer

You changed the Rules, Albus.

You weren't supposed to do that.  It was all so clear, so crystal clear.  Don't you remember?  Don't you recall Albus that terrible time fourteen years ago when things almost came to an end?  Don't you remember the night I broke down and wept in your arms?

I remember.  I will never, ever forget the sound of your voice as you spoke to me that night of things I had done and not done, of my reasons and pretended reasons.  I will never forget how I felt.

I was afraid of you Albus.

But then you told me the Rules.  You set out the Plan – the Plan for defeating the Dark Lord once and for all.  And you told me the Rules for making sure that plan was carried out.

And then my fear of you went away.  Despite your power and your wrath, despite the glory in your eyes shining like two blue suns, I no longer feared you.  Because you had taken me into the Plan, and given me the promise of the Rules.  The Rules gave me life, and the Plan gave me purpose.  

You gave me hope.

And now you have thrown it all away.

When did it begin Albus?  When did you betray the Rules?  When did you abandon the plan?  When did you first turn your back on me and all the others who trusted in you and your word?

I know when I first had an inkling of what you had done.  I know when I knew the first stirrings of dread.  It was the night of the Leavetaking Feast, 1992.  My Slytherins were in first place.  They were proud and magnificent, poised for victory.  I had great plans for that victory.  Yes, I was going to parlay that triumph into a place of renewed trust among all those who still doubted me.  Why, I had the entire House eating out of the palm of my hand, and it was only a matter of time before their parents – their damnable, vile, parents – followed.  I had discussed this with you in some detail, as I recall.

When you rose at the feast I was already planning what I would say when Lucius Malfoy invited me to his mansion for a celebration.  I was plotting how to worm my way into the secrets of families who had spit in my direction for years.

And then you threw it all away.  With a few smiling sentences you plucked Gryffindor, my House's most hated rival, from last place and enthroned them as victors.  With a wave of your powerful hands, you swept away the serpent colors to be replaced with those of the lion.

And you did not even look in my direction.

Oh, I thought for a few moments that it was some grand manipulation of yours.  Some great twist in the Plan.  For after all, the first Rule is – or should I say was – that the Plan comes before all.

But then I saw what you were looking at and I felt like I was going to die.  I could not believe it.  I did not want to believe it.  For long days afterwards I tried to deny it.  But in the end I had to accept it.  

Albus Dumbledore, Champion of the Light, Master of Wisdom, Creator of the Plan, Maker of the Rules, Leader of the Just, was smiling merrily at an eleven year old boy, totally oblivious to the chaos he had just wreaked.  You had just broken the first and most important Rule for the sake of a child's happiness.

You had just betrayed me in order to make Harry Potter smile.

I know what Minerva McGonagall says.  She says that I dislike Harry Potter because he is James Potter's son.  She says I dislike him because he has James' face and Lily's eyes.

She is right.  No one – not even Dumbledore the great – could have endured what I endured at the hand of James Potter and his friends and not feel the same.  Oh I know what everyone says – that I am childish, that I should grow up, that it is not appropriate for a grown man to take out the pain of his life on a child.

Where was everyone when I needed them?

But there is a deeper reason that I loathe Harry Potter.  A more fundamental cause for my antipathy.  

I think I sensed from the very beginning what effect he had on you.  I think I knew from the moment Potter first came through the doors at the Welcoming Feast that treachery was afoot in your heart. 

It began that very first night, didn't it – Halloween, 1981?  It started the very first time you held him in your arms.

I used to here rumors third hand.  It would come from students or staff by way of unknown sources – house elves perhaps.  They talked about mysterious rages you would have, how Dumbledore the gentle would suddenly fly into fury after getting news from somewhere about some mysterious muggles, how angry you would get about something you were observing from afar.

It was Potter, wasn't it?  You were observing him all that time with those relatives of his.

The rumors would say how you would become so enraged that china in your vicinity would shatter, that candlesticks would melt as you passed.  I always thought that was ridiculous.  Now that I have seen how you regard Harry Potter, I have no doubt but that the stories were perfectly true.

How bitter it was to know that you had thrown away the very Plan that defined my existence for so long.  I knew of course that Potter was part of the plan – at the center of it in fact.  For a while I even managed to trick myself into almost believing that your attitude was some kind of manipulation after all, a way of massaging Potter's attitude into the correct form.

That was all shattered when Sirius Black returned.  Of all the people I hated in the world, he was the worst.  He was the worst and Potter helped him escape.  Potter helped him escape and YOU helped Potter.

Oh yes, he was innocent.  I know that now.  But would it really have made any difference to you if he wasn't?  If Potter had wanted him free, would it really have made any difference?  I wonder.

But that was not what really convinced me.  What really made me understand the true nature of your feelings for Potter was the way you acted when I tried to fail him in Potions.  Do you remember that, Albus?  You should.  It was one of the most terrible days of my life.

We were reviewing the Potions grades.  You were flipping through the sheets as usual.  Then you came to Potter's.  You looked at the grade and looked at me.  Then you said, "I believe we should discuss this, Severus."  Oh yes, you were most polite.  You were almost deferential – if giving an iron order in soft and apologetic tones can be taken as deferential.

But that look in your eyes.  That look that you gave me for just a fraction of a second before you spoke.  That look I wanted so hard to believe I had imagined.  It was a look of amusement, wasn't it Albus?  A look of amusement, and of contempt.  Very much like the looks I got today from Sprout and Flitwick as I signed our "proceedings" about Potter's use of the Cruciatus Curse.

When I was much younger I studied for a while with a circle of alchemists in Arabia.  I learned many secrets from them, and heard many stories.  They were great ones for telling stories.  But one sticks in my mind tonight as I sit in my dungeon, my hands shaking and my throat burning of muggle whiskey.  It was about Lucifer, the Lightbringer, the angel who fell to become the devil.

According to the story they told, Lucifer fell after Adam was created.  But he did not fall because Adam was made.  No, he fell later.  It seems that when Adam and his family became enmeshed in sin, Lucifer went to God and denounced the humans, saying they had betrayed God's trust.  They had violated the divine Plan.  They had broken the Rules.

But Lucifer had miscalculated.  You see, he had assumed that Adam and his children were to be like the angels – that is servants to carry out God's Plan.  In fact, they were to be children.

The speech God made to Lucifer sticks in my mind tonight, made as clear by the whiskey as the rest of my thoughts are made fuzzy:

Lucifer, Lightbringer, most glorious of Angels, you are the greatest of my servants, the most faithful of my creations.  You have never veered from my commands.  Ever you have obeyed my will.  Now you come before me and speak the truth about Adam and his family, for they have defied me.  They flout my will, they ignore my commands.  In their hands my Plan for creation comes to naught.

_And yet I say to you Lucifer, Lightbringer, that were you ten thousand times as glorious, and they ten thousand times as vile, yet would they still stand in my esteem as far above you as the stars stand from the earth.  For you are a servant, whose duty it is to obey my commands and carry forth my plans, and that is all you shall ever be.  And Adam and his descendants are my children, who shall inherit my kingdom, and nothing will displace them from that right.  For that is the nature of the servant and the child, of the master and the father.  And now it is given unto you that you shall remain and accept your lot, and the rights of my children, or you shall depart from me into the darkness never to return._

And I say further unto you Lucifer, Lightbringer, most faithful and glorious of Angels, that because you speak out of ignorance this once do a forgive you.  But should you dare ever again to slander my children before me I will put you forth from my presence with my own hand, and neither your deeds nor your obedience shall stay my judgment.  For it is not meet that a father should suffer his child to be slandered by a servant, even one such as you.

I know how the old boy felt (Lucifer that is, not God).

I have served you Albus.  For fourteen years my life has been defined by your commandments, by your plan.

And now I understand that to you that means less than nothing.  To you the Plan that I and so many others have worked for, have fought for, have believed in, is worth less than a child's smile.

I could betray you of course.  I could go to the Dark Lord and admit everything.  

I won't though.  For one thing the Dark Lord is not forgiving of traitors, even self-confessed ones.  For another I still believe in your Plan, even if you don't.  I still value your Rules, even if you are perfectly willing to rewrite them at a whim.

But I have to say Albus, it is growing harder.  It is growing harder to go before the Dark Lord.  It is growing harder to lie to him, to work for you, to further your machinations.  And the reason is because I know you would let me die.

I would not mind dying for the Plan.  After all that is part of the agreement.  It is one of the Rules.  No one's life comes before the Plan.

But you would let me die for the sake of Harry Potter.  And that, Albus, I do mind.

I wonder if the others know yet?  I wonder what the other members of the Order would think if they truly understood that you would let us all burn if it meant saving your precious Harry.

And you would you know.  Oh yes, you would.  Of course it might be argued that Harry Potter is central to the Plan.  That saving him is serving the Plan.

It might be.  I suppose it would even be true.  But the fact is that even if we found out tonight that it was all a mistake, even if we found out that Harry Potter is not important after all, but is only a boy with a jagged scar on his face, it would not matter.  Even if he lost every bit of magic he had and became a muggle, it would not matter to you.  You would still let us all go straight to the everlasting bonfire to save him.

Damn it Albus, why did you have to find a son!?

But today – today something happened that hasn't happened in a long, long time.  When I came to you about Potter using the Cruciatus Curse on LeStrange, I wanted to plead with you to come to your senses.  I wanted you to understand that he is not worthy of all your devotion.  He is just a servant, fallible and frail as all the rest of us.

I should have known better.

When you spoke to me in that cold tone Albus, when you looked at me like that.

But should you dare ever again to slander my children before me I will put you forth from my presence with my own hand, and neither your deeds nor your obedience shall stay my judgment.  

Today Albus, I was afraid of you again.

And this time, I don't think it will go away.


	5. Quoth the Raven

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG

Category-Angst/General

A/N:     Thank you for all the kind reviews!  In reply to a few questions that have arisen, the legend about Lucifer quoted in Chapter Four is actually not from the Bible.  It is a Middle Eastern folk tale, some echoes of which are found in the Koran.

            In terms of Arthur's letter, Albus will indeed receive it, but not in this fic.  In order to see him receiving it, and his reaction, you'll have to read my fic "Here be Monsters."  That fic and this one are weaving in and out of each other quite a bit.  The part where Albus reads the letter is not up yet, but will be coming along in due course.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Five: Quoth the Raven

I wonder if I will live to see another Leavetaking Feast?  That is an odd thought, and one that would amaze my students and especially my Ravenclaws if they heard it.  Silly, cheerful old Flitwick worried about dying?  

How little they know.

Oh it isn't that I'm not silly, or old, or cheerful.  I'm abundantly all three.  But many people, especially young people, think that to be cheerful means that one has never seen sorrow in life, to be silly is never to have known tears.  Come to think of it many adults think the same way.

_Infinitus est numerus stultorum._

I am tired after the feast, but I want to check on a few things with my Ravenclaws before I return to my chambers.  I enter the girl's dormitories at a slow stroll.  The alarm that would normally go off raucously instead gives a loud but rather pleasant chime to announce my presence.  I could disable it for "sneak" inspections, but that is not my purpose.  I loiter a bit to allow everyone the chance to clothe themselves and then proceed onwards.  My first stop is in the fourth year dormitory.  As I suspected, Luna Lovegood is currently sitting there alone, reading the latest addition of her father's newspaper, the Quibbler.  I must confess that ever since they printed Harry Potter's interview this year, and after the disgraceful behavior of the Daily Prophet, I've grown rather fond of the publication.  Also, anything Dolores Umbridge hated must be quite good.

"Hello my dear," I say, trotting up and pulling myself up onto a chair near her bed.  "Are your things coming back?"  It is a yearly ritual.  People steal Luna's belongings then slowly return them as Leavetaking approaches.  I suppose they find it funny because it is so easy.  The child is so dreamy that you would think you could take the shoes off her feet without being noticed.

I have always thought, however, that there was more to Luna than far-off expressions and slightly odd attire (like her bottle-cap necklace).  When I heard about her exploits at the Ministry of Magic this year, I was so proud I almost spontaneously levitated!

"Yes Professor," she says calmly, as if she is discussing the weather.  "It's like usual."

"Well, if anything doesn't come back you make sure you tell me by early morning, all right?"  I pat her arm and press a box of sugar mice into her hand.  They are my favorites, and an effective way of showing sympathy and approval.  Rather like my version of Albus' lemon drops.

"OK," she says, not looking back up from her paper.

I move on whistling.  If Luna is still missing some of her possessions in the morning, some of good old Professor Flitwick's finding charms will do the trick.  There will also be some Ravenclaws going home with various harmless but exceedingly inconvenient and difficult-to-remove hexes to deal with.

That makes me think of my next stop, and I quit whistling.  I probably should not show up looking too cheerful.  

The fifth year girls' dormitory also has one occupant, this one heavily veiled.  I hear the sounds of muffled sobs coming from behind the thin cloth.

"Marietta dear," I say softly, coming up to her with another box of sugar mice, "it's Professor Flitwick."

"Pro-Professor?" she asks softly.  Poor dear.  She's been like this ever since she turned the Defense Association over to Umbridge and incurred the hex that made SNEAK appear on her face in purple pustules.  Hermione Granger's work.  Quite admirable – from a purely professional standpoint.  "Have you fah-found a way to remove the hex?"

Her voice is so hopeful I hate to do what comes next.  "No dear," I say softly, pressing the box of sugar mice into her hand, "but we will keep working on it over the summer."

She nods and goes back to weeping softly.  I feel bad lying to Marietta.  Miss Granger is very talented, but Rowena Ravenclaw will come back from the dead before a fifth year can formulate a hex I can't undo.  There are at least three ways to remove Marietta's pustules.  Nevertheless, Marietta has a lesson to learn.  She is basically a good child, but she has a streak of moral weakness that could be very dangerous, especially in these troubled times.  I fear if we simply forgave her she might well commit a much greater treachery in the not too distant future.

A thought crosses my mind.  "Weren't you supposed to talk with Headmaster Dumbledore yesterday Marietta?"

"Yes sir," she says between sobs, "I saw him."

Albus also could have easily broken the hex.  I am not surprised he chose not to, however.

"What did he say dear?"

"He said that we all have to live with the consequences of our choices.  Then he gave me a lemon drop and sent me away."  Fresh sobs.

I sigh.  That sounds rather brusque for Albus.  Of course he is very busy these days.  And Marietta can hardly expect a great deal of sympathy from that direction.  She was responsible for Albus being exiled from Hogwarts for a time, after all.  

More importantly, she endangered Harry Potter.  Although Albus might well be inclined to forgive any harm to himself, harm to Mister Potter falls into an entirely different category.

He loves Harry of course, Albus does.  Not like some of my less wise students implied (and in Sprout's hearing at that!) but in a fatherly, or if you will grandfatherly way.  And so many people around here can't forgive him for it!

I enter my quarters, overflowing with books and papers on charms, hexes, curses, and the like.  Many people find it strange that a Charms teacher should be the Head of Ravenclaw.  Charms is a subject that often gets little regard.  Indeed, many argue that it is not a subject at all, but merely a catch all for a variety of spells and practices that don't quite fit under any other rubric.  Indeed, it does encompass everything from summoning to invisibility to weather control.  I lose count of how many times I've heard people denounce the study of charms as "stamp collecting."  When they find out that I am not only a Ravenclaw, but the Head of Ravenclaw, they are often flabbergasted.  They expect the Head of Ravenclaw to be interested in Arithmancy or Transfigurations or even Potions, but Charms?  Surely that is a subject for Hufflepuffs!

Interestingly enough, all the people I've heard express those opinions are either Gryffindors or Slytherins.  The Hufflepuffs are not at all surprised to find a Ravenclaw in charge of Charms.  Of course the Hufflepuffs are rarely surprised by anything.  Popular opinion holds that is a sign of their thickheadedness.  Over the years I have rather come to a conclusion that it is a sign of their wisdom.

In truth, Charms is a perfect subject for a Ravenclaw.  Most people from other Houses have an image of Ravenclaws as cold, unfeeling calculating machines, constantly grinding out answers to equations, always enamored of rational theoretical systems.  It is true that some Ravenclaws are like that, but those properties scarcely define our House.  Rather a Ravenclaw is one with a thirst, a desire, an intense need to KNOW.  And there are many ways of knowing.  Some know through theoretical understanding and calculation, it is true.  Others however know through empirical experience, through examination and exploration of the minutia of variety in the world.  That type of Ravenclaw is perfect for Charms – or for History of Magic, another popular subject with my House.  Each charm, each historical tale, has a life of its own, a presence, a set of parameters.  Each must be understood according to its own laws before it can be understood according to the laws of some whole.  Each must be approached as a new adventure, a new door to be opened, a new enemy to vanquish, a new fabulous kingdom to explore!  And with each day there is another charm, another story, another adventure, another kingdom, another treasure of fabulous wonders!

I wearily change into my dressing gown and slippers, settling into my favorite chair to think for a while before sleeping.  I always do this, taking a few moments to digest the splendor of the day that has just passed while anticipating that of the day to come.

My thoughts wander back to Albus.  He was disappointed that Harry did not come to the Leavetaking Feast.  I could see it in his eyes.  Personally I don't blame the boy.  From what I've heard he's been through enough this week.  But I felt sorry for Albus.  He does love the child so much, and so obviously hoped he would be there with his friends enjoying himself.  I think he is very worried about Mister Potter.

Well he should be.  A teenager cannot handle everything Harry has been through without problems, and I don't know the whole of it.  I wish my Katherine was still alive.  She could help Albus and Harry get through this.  I often find it curious that I, funny old Flitwick, am the only Head of House to have ever been married and have children!  Ah, life is strange and wonderful!

Katherine.  She has been gone now for many years – as has our daughter Mariel.  Our two sons died within her, victims of Magical Resistance Syndrome.  She was a muggle, my Katherine, and sometimes – rarely, but sometimes – when a muggle woman bears magical children her body tries to reject them as something alien.  We buried them, our dead babies, in the back of our house.  I go there every year and cry over them.  What would my students think to see silly, cheerful Flitwick then?

In any case, Katherine was a clinical psychologist who taught at a muggle university during the school year.  We would spend long hours on summer nights discussing the Hogwarts faculty and dissecting them according to the latest theories.  Some of my brightest memories are of the rare occasions Katherine would visit me at Hogwarts and make whispered comments at the High Table.

Severus Snape was a favorite target in her elder years. She called him "a walking career for some graduate student."  She was certainly right about that.  Tonight he was staring death at Albus.  Severus of course hates Harry Potter as much as Albus loves him.  Once I remember asking Katherine, all joking aside, what she thought Snape's main trouble was.  I remember her putting on her best professional face, tapping the side of her jaw, and saying gravely, "I would diagnose Severus Snape, given the evidence and hand and my own personal observations, as being a bitter hateful git!"  We laughed so hard everyone in the Three Broomsticks was staring at us.

Yes Severus cannot stand the thought that Albus loves Harry.  Of course he can't stand the thought that Harry is James Potter's son.  I remember that rivalry all too well.  James was never a favorite of mine, nor was Sirius Black to be honest.  But Severus, for goodness sake!  Your school years were terrible?  Join the club.  James flipped you around in the garden.  Try getting used as a Quaffle.  I became a dueling champion for a reason.  Of course you were ambitious.  You wanted to prove yourself.  All I wanted was to be left alone.

Then there was Sprout, sitting there steaming.  Frankly I don't understand what her objection is.  If it makes her nose so out of joint she should keep it in the greenhouse.

The one that truly surprises me in Minerva.  She likes Harry so much herself I would think she would have little to quarrel with Albus on this matter.  But I met her coming out of Albus' office tonight, looking like she could bite a nail in two.  One advantage of being a Ravenclaw is you pick up ways of ferreting out information without looking like that's what you're doing.  A short conversation while walking down the hall showed me the picture.  She had been reminded that Albus loves Harry Potter better than Hermione Granger, her own favorite.

I fold my hands and twirl my thumbs absently.  Minerva!  She has so many good qualities, but all of them dim before her awesome lack of an ability to laugh at herself.  I mean the whole thing was perfectly ridiculous.  She admitted that Albus had been perfectly fair in everything he said and did, it was just his "attitude."  I wanted to levitate her into the center of the hallway and leave her hanging there to contemplate that sentence overnight (as I have been known to do with particularly stubborn Ravenclaws).  What it comes down to is that Minerva McGonagall is allowed to have her favorites but Albus Dumbledore is not allowed to have his!  Like I say, an ability to laugh at herself occasionally would be very good for Minerva's outlook on life.

I think what it really comes down to is that none of them understand what it is to be lonely, not really.  Snape is so lonely it hurts you to contemplate, but he is too bitter and damaged to realize it.  McGonagall is so iron-plated I don't think loneliness would dare insinuate itself into her mind, and Sprout seems perfectly happy in the company of her plants.  They don't understand why Albus needs Harry, and so they see his love for the boy as a strange and inexplicable failing.

Like I said before, _infinitus est numerus stultorum._

After my Katherine died I thought I would follow her.  Mariel was already gone.  If not for my granddaughters, Esther and Rachel, I don't know what I would have done.  Esther, a brilliant mind with the heart of a raging tiger – like her grandmother.  Rachel, a soft heart and a determination to succeed – like her mother.  As I think of them Esther my Gryffinclaw and Rachel my Slythelpuff.

But Albus – Albus is alone, or nearly so.  Alone and with the weight of the world on his shoulders.  

And then one day he met an extraordinary boy who was also alone, and he fell in love with him.

And what's wrong with that?

Well, I reflect as I rise to go to bed, people will always find something to complain about.  I look out my windows and see that Albus' lights are still on.  I hope he gets some sleep tonight.

The world is about to go to war, and I don't know what will happen.  I don't know if I will live to see another Leavetaking Feast.

But I do know that Albus Dumbledore loves The Boy Who Lived.  And if it means anything to anybody, silly old Flitwick hopes it works out well for them.

A/N:  _Infinitus est numerus stultorum_ is a paraphrase from Seneca.  It means the number of fools is infinite.


	6. His True Face

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG 13

Category-Angst/Drama

A/N: Once again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews!  The chapters in this fic are a somewhat out of chronological order, which is not of particular importance.  If it becomes so later I will go back and fix it.  For those of you that care, Sprout, Flitwick, and McGonagall all give their views on the night of Leavetaking Feast in Harry's fifth year, which I have arbitrarily pegged as Friday, 28 June, 1996.  Mr. Weasley's Letter and Snape's views are from the next day, Saturday 29 June, 1996.  The next three chapters or so are a set of related views from members of the Order.  They revolve around a meeting of the Order that takes place at 12 Grimmauld Place just prior to the Leavetaking Feast, that is on the afternoon of Friday, 28 June, 1996.  Now that we are all temporally oriented, let us proceed.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Six: His True Face

Why do people always insist on putting umbrella stands in such inconvenient places?

I was reflecting on this mystery of life (while picking myself up off the floor of 12 Grimmauld Place), when Moody's latest bellow cut through the air.  "TONKS!  HAVE YOU FALLEN OUT OF A WINDOW AGAIN?!"

"Coming Moody!"  Honestly, some people have no patience! And besides, I caught myself didn't I?

I stop at the mirror and check my latest appearance.  I'm experimenting with green and pink hair tonight.  I'm rather proud of it.  It's quite difficult to hold two hair colors at once.  The mirror evidently is not impressed, judging by the rasberry sound it makes.

As I suspected, Dumbledore hasn't even arrived when I enter the kitchen.  Remus Lupin is standing at the stove, brewing tea and looking mournful.  He certainly has the right, but frankly he always looked mournful to me and I can't tell whether he's changed or not.  Moody is propped up against the wall, eye rolling and mouth scowling.  Arthur and Molly Weasley are sitting at the table, looking subdued.  Both of them greet me quietly, as does Lupin.  I can tell the Weasley's have been deeply touched by recent events.  Molly doesn't even bother to raise a questioning eyebrow at my choice of hairstyles.  Then again maybe she is just going easy on me because I am so recently recovered from the wounds I received in the Ministry of Magic.

I walk over and take a seat next to Arthur (I like Molly a lot but if I sit to close she is inclined to take that as a license to give advice).  "When is Dumbledore supposed to be here?"

"Ten minutes ago!" Moody answers with a growl from the back of the kitchen.

"We don't really know," Lupin says in a much more civil tone as he brings the kettle around to fill our cups.  "The Leavetaking Feast is tonight and he will have a lot to do.  But he should be along any time now."

"Is that creature eating yet?" Moody asks.

"Buckbeak?" I sigh and shake my head, "Not a single rat.  The poor thing misses Sirius so badly it's heartbreaking."

"Perhaps we should have Hagrid look in on him," Lupin suggests as he takes the chair next to Molly.  "He belonged to Hagrid before he belonged to Sirius."

"I suppose he belongs to Harry now," Arthur says wearily.  "For that matter, I suppose this whole house belongs to Harry – and Kreacher too."  He gives a bitter laugh.  I don't like the sound of it.  Arthur Weasley is much too kind a man to laugh in that tone.

"Did Sirius leave it to Harry?" I ask.

"Who knows?" Moody snaps.  "And besides, the man was still a convicted criminal!"

"I don't think that makes a difference as far as property goes Moody." Arthur says.  "We will have to see what Sirius put in his will.  He gave me a copy a short while ago for safekeeping."

"Me too," Lupin says smiling sadly.  "It seems he didn't want to take chances.  My guess is he left everything to Harry.  Otherwise everything would go to his next of kin – that being his cousin, Narcissa Malfoy."

"I certainly hope he left everything to the boy," Moody says, his voice suddenly much gentler.  "If love has anything to do with it, that would be the just thing."  He suddenly seems to realize what he just said and blushes.  "Besides," he continues in his normal half-roar, "I'm looking forward to seeing the look on Narcissa's face when she finds out the Black family property just got yanked out of her greedy clutches and plopped into the hands of Harry Potter!"

"I would be more interested in seeing Lucius' face." Arthur offers.

"Him too," Moody nods.  "Maybe they'll do us a favor and line up for a family picture – Narcissa, Lucius, and that brat of theirs."

"Draco," I volunteer.

"Yeah, him.  Turning him into a ferret was one good idea Crouch had, anyway."  Suddenly Moody looks and my hair as if seeing it for the first time and winces.  "What on earth are you trying to do this time woman!?  Just when I thought I had seen everything!"

"Hardly," I chuckle.  "You know what they say about a Metamorphmagus.  If you ever see the true face of one, you'll be turned to ash."

"Do they now?"  Moody growls.

Actually I made that one up, but it sounds awfully good, so I nod enthusiastically.

Just then a soft roaring announced that someone is about to arrive by floo.  I turn to the fireplace just as Albus Dumbledore steps out of the smoke.  I see that he is already dressed in some of his finer robes, so he must be counting on going to the feast almost immediately after our meeting.

"Hello everyone," he says in a weary voice.  He moves to his usual spot at the head of the table.  But rather than take his usual chair he slides it to one side and materializes a rather poofy cushioned thing with a couple of lazy wand movements.  Then he sits down heavily and, to my shock, places his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands.

I am taken aback.  The omnipotent headmaster of my school years, the champion of light, the head of the Order of the Phoenix, the greatest wizard of the age, the man who recently fought the Dark Lord into retreat while chiding him like a schoolboy, is acting like a tired, sad old man.

Something uncomfortably like fear coils cold fingers around my intestines.

After a few moments of what seems like absolute silence he raises his head and re-settles his half-moon glasses on his nose.  His smile is kindly as always, but so very, very tired.  "Forgive me friends.  It has been a very difficult week for us all."

Actually I have been hearing more than I have been doing.  The ministry is in an uproar and the Order is awaiting new intelligence before making definite plans.  Still, I can appreciate what it must be like for Dumbledore, newly returned to his school after facing the Dark Lord at the Ministry.

"Is Minerva going to join us? And what about Kingsley and Severus?" Arthur asks.

"Kingsley is detained on duties for the Ministry.  As for Minerva and Severus – I am not sure they are the best people for this particular task."

Arthur accepts that with a shrug.

"Actually, in a way this isn't Order business at all.  It is more in the way of a ... personal favor."  Dumbledore folds his hands on the table and looks down, idly tapping his fingertips together.

"What do you want Albus?  Just ask." Moody interjects, his voice perhaps slightly less rough than it would be with most people.

"I know you all get tired of hearing me say this, but I'm worried about Harry."

I for one don't get tired of hearing him say it, because I think he has reason to worry about the kid.  Harry's already been through more than most people face in entire lifetimes, and he has the Dark Lord after him to boot.  What's not to worry about?

"Possession again?" Arthur Weasley asks, his voice tense with concern.

"No, I think after his experience in the Ministry Voldemort will be reluctant to try that again immediately.  I am worried about more mundane problems."  He looks up with a sober expression.

When you are a Metamorphmagus, you learn a lot about faces and body language.  You have to in order to properly control and channel your own talents.  After a while, you can read things easily other people would not notice.  Therefore I am sure that no one else in the room took note of the small twitch near Dumbledore's jawline, or the slight tension in his wrists.

I have never tried to "read" Dumbledore before so I study him more carefully with a delicious feeling of doing something slightly naughty.  But that feeling goes away quickly when I note the tightness of the skin at the corners of his eyes, the slight hint of a ragged edge around two of his fingernails, and two blue throbbing veins in his neck nearly hidden by the collar of his robes.  

He is good.  Oh he is very, very good.  But I have absolutely no doubt.

Dumbledore is not just worried, he is shaken and deeply fearful.

I feel bile rise in my throat and swallow hard.  Dumbledore is not supposed to be fearful.  Dumbledore is supposed to be the great wizard.  Dumbledore is supposed to be the mighty leader.

Nevertheless, something has him quivering in his boots.

"What is it about Harry?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Is Harry OK?" Remus says fearfully.  "He isn't taking this well, is he?"

If you are so concerned – I think uncharitably – you might try getting off your furry rear and checking things out yourself.  Ironically for a werewolf Lupin has a pronounced streak of passivity in his character – and frankly I do not find it particularly appealing.

"No," Dumbledore says quietly, "he is not."

"Well," why I am taking the lead in this conversation I don't know, "what has he said to you about it?"

"After the – vigorous discussion – you mean?"

I nod.  I really don't understand why everybody was so effing surprised at that.  I mean you take a boy who's been neglected for ten years, tell him he's a wizard, and run him through a gauntlet of dangers for four years in a row.  Then to top it all off you spend a year telling him nothing while some slug from the Ministry tries to get him expelled and the Daily Prophet runs articles every other day calling him either insane or a liar.  Oh, and you give him a lifetime Quidditch ban as a bonus prize.  All things considered I wouldn't have been surprised if he had blown up long before now.

Frankly I blame McGonagall.  For a woman who's spent more than twenty years as the Head of a House packed with adolescent boys, she did a stunningly bad job of running interference on this one.

Then again, Minerva and I never did quite agree on most things.  

"Harry and I have not talked since then.  I fear he does not wish to be in my presence."  Dumbledore's throat muscles tighten spasmodically.  His fingers flex just slightly, as if wanting to clench.  His jaws slide against each other ever so slightly.

All signs of extreme emotional pain viciously suppressed.

Now why would Albus Dumbledore be in extreme pain because he thinks Harry does not want to talk to him?

"Are you saying the boy is falling apart?"  Moody's voice is gentle again.  He has come up to the table and taken the chair Albus pushed aside.  "Does he need to go to St. Mungo's?  I know some people we can trust Albus.  There's no shame in it.  And heaven knows it's understandable after all Harry's been through."

"I don't know.  And I don't think we can take the chance, anyway."  Dumbledore is trying to talk briskly, but it sounds like there is something in his throat.  "I think for now we have to try to help Harry ourselves."

"Like we did last summer?"  That's Molly, and I'm surprised at the coldness in her tone.

"Molly," Dumbledore's eyes are dark with sorrow, "I made many mistakes last summer."

"Yes you did Albus!"  No one can get into a rage like Molly, and she's working into one now.  Already her face is going the color of her hair.  "You kept coming up with excuses to keep him there!  And what did it get him?  Very nearly a Dementor's kiss!"

Dumbledore then does something I never thought I would see.  He drops his gaze like a child being scolded.  "I wanted to keep him safe," he says so softly I can barely hear.

And then I understand.  It all fits into place so neatly I almost kick myself (I've done that by the way, but not on purpose).  Dumbledore loves the boy.  I'm so taken with the revelation that I barely hear Arthur quieting Molly.

I look at the old wizard now with a sudden flood of warmth.  So that is what all this is about!  Albus Dumbledore, Great Wizard of the Age, has decided he loves a fifteen-year-old boy and he's worried sick about him.  Well, good for Dumbledore!  Harry is a sweet kid, and goodness knows he needs all the love he can get, especially with Sirius gone.  

I suspect Dumbledore hasn't TOLD Harry he loves him though.  He strikes me as somebody that would be terribly silly that way.  Well, first things first.

"What do you want us to do, Headmaster?" I ask gently.

"Harry isn't treated very well by his relatives," he says softly.

"You can say that again," Arthur Weasley replies with a growl that would do Moody proud, "I've said time and again Albus that we would be glad for Harry to live at the Burrow."

"And I wish he could." Albus shakes his head, looking even sadder if possible.  "There are reasons he has to stay with his relatives part of the year.  Reasons having to do with his safety.  I honestly don't know if I made the right decisions, years ago.  But with Voldemort back we can't do anything to compromise any refuge Harry might have."

I don't understand.  Why would Harry be safe at a muggle house?  But we are in the realm of High Wizardry now, and there Dumbledore is master and I trust him completely.

"Still, I do regret and repent of much I have done.  I feared to interfere there because I did not want to compromise the refuge.  I feared and dithered and delayed, and Harry suffered.  Oh yes, he suffered," Dumbledore's eyes grow so dark they remind me of thunderheads, "suffered more than any child should ever have to suffer.  But now I can dither no longer.  Harry is wounded.  He is wounded and tired and alone, and I will not have him treated like vermin!"  

I want to cheer.  I have not known Harry as long as the others, but the stories I have heard about his treatment at Privet Drive make me long to hex someone.

"What do you want us to do Albus?" Moody asks, grinning.

"I want you to meet Harry when he gets off the train tomorrow.  I want you to confront his relatives.  I want you to make clear to them that we WILL keep tabs on Harry, and they WILL treat him decently, or the consequences will not be appealing."

"I think we can do that," Moody says.

"Gladly." Arthur's grin is actually almost feral.  He looks more like a werewolf than Lupin.

Molly nods fiercely, looking like she will deal physically with any muggle who dares object.

I nod as well.

Dumbledore forces himself to relax.  "In that case, I will have a little tea then be going."

We rapidly break down into meaningless chitchat after that.  I sit and stare at Dumbledore.  

So you love Harry Potter?  And I would bet a hundred galleons you don't have the courage to flat out tell him as much.  It's really rather comic, and immensely sad.  The destroyer of Grindlewald, the man who just went ten rounds with Voldemort, is afraid to tell a fifteen-year-old boy that he is loved.

The problem is that boy needs to know he is loved so very badly.

I am still thinking about this as we begin to break apart.  Moody has a mission tonight.  Arthur and Molly must get back to the Burrow to prepare for their childrens' return.  As Dumbledore rises and approaches the fireplace to floo back to Hogwarts I approach him on impulse.

"Headmaster, a quick question about tomorrow."

"Certainly Nymphadora," he knows I hate the name and smiles to take the sting away.  This is the Dumbledore I remember.  "What is it?"

"If the Dursleys are stubborn, what should we do?"

"I doubt they will be.  They are essentially cowards."  He grabs a handful of floo powder.

"But what if they ARE," I ask, pressing the issue, "I mean, they probably know by now we won't threaten to kill them.  I mean, what do we say if they as 'What are you going to do, kill us?'

Dumbledore pauses and lets out a deep sigh.  He stares at the fireplace.  I recognize his stance easily.  It is the posture of someone lost in bad memories.  Make that very bad memories.

"Tell them Nymphadora," he says at last without looking up, "that there are many worse things in the world than dying."  Then he looks up at me for a brief moment, turns and floos away.

I walk slowly back to the kitchen table.  Remus is busily washing up the tea things.  He asks me something, but I don't hear him.

I am remembering his face.

I don't know why it happened.  Certainly he didn't intend it to.  I think he was too tired.  Too tired and too sad and too overcome with love and fear and anger.

For one brief instant, less than a breath, all of his masks slipped at the same time.  For just a single flash, all of the veils came aside.

And in that instant I saw the true face of Albus Dumbledore.

And I was not turned to ash, but something worse happened.

In that briefest of moments I saw how he truly feels about Harry Potter.

In that moment I saw what he would like to do to the muggles who have hurt his beloved child so badly for so long.  I saw what he is restrained from doing only be his decency, by his years of service to the light, and by the fact that he blames himself before all.

I saw what he meant when he said many things in this world are worse than death.

And now I have to go to my room and start thinking about what I will say to the muggles tomorrow.  Because I won't sleep.

No, I won't be sleeping for a very long time.


	7. The Minds of Old Men

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG 13

Category-Angst/Drama

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Seven: The Minds of Old Men

Most people think I'm grumpy.

Most people are right.

I mean, how would you like it if you only had part of a nose and one eye?  I'm always getting comments like, "It must be marvelous to have a magic eye!"

I usually reply to that one with "Give me one of your eyes and you can have it!"

I haven't found any takers yet.

As I move out of the kitchen where we had just finished our meeting of the order the damn thing plays havoc with me again.  It's attuned to magical resonance more than normal light, so when I cross sudden boundaries of illumination it sometimes takes it a moment to adjust.  It only takes an instant, but that is enough to be irritating.  I should have rolled it backwards in my head and kept it focused on the kitchen through the back of my skull.  Over the years I've perfected the trick of that and it isn't as disorienting as trying to look forward in this kind of situation. But I'm deep in thought and off guard, so I forget I have a magic eye (yes, after all these years I still forget) and find myself stumbling along and right into an umbrella stand at the base of the stairs.

Why do people always insist on putting umbrella stands in such inconvenient places?

I quickly put my hand on the banister and pull myself upright.  Luckily the Weasleys have gone out the back way, and Albus and Tonks are finishing their tea.  I manage to disentangle myself without embarassment (and without waking the portrait of the old biddy hanging down the hall) and make my way into the main sitting room.  There is a large fireplace there and a jar of floo powder.  I am supposed to be on a mission to make contact with a few old informants among the less respectable classes.  But that is a job best left for later in the evening, and I think something else needs my attention right now.

I make my way to the fireplace and take a handful of powder.  Naturally Albus' office has safeguards against just anyone flooing in.  However as one of his oldest friends I generally have the current passwords to get past his wards.  I hope he hasn't changed them lately, or I will be suffering from a severely bruised backside.

"Fig cluster honey cakes," I hiss, "Albus Dumbledore's office." I toss the powder into the grate and step forward.

I exit into a darkened room that immediately begins to brighten as the enchanted candle crystals in the Headmaster's office note my arrival.  Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, looks at me from his perch and trills a greeting.  I wave to him from across the room but don't approach.  Ever since losing that chunk out of my nose I am leery of things with sharp beaks or fangs.

Instead I walk to one of the windows, the drapes sliding open as I draw near.  The yard is still busy despite the lateness of the hour and the waning of the light.  Students are dashing hither and yon, getting in a last bit of amusement or mischief or both before heading home for the summer.  The seventh years will already be getting maudlin as graduation approaches.  I regret not being able to teach that year.  It would have been an extraordinary experience.

I especially regret missing the tri-wizard tournament.  Of course if I _had_ been here then Crouch would not have been around to meddle and things would not have been nearly so dramatic.  Or maybe they would have.  Harry Potter would still have been there, after all, and drama seems to follow him like goblins follow galleons.

Potter.  Now there is an extraordinary case study.  Half the time the boy makes me profoundly glad I never came within a league of having children.  The other half of the time I wish I had a teenage daughter so he could marry her.

I walk across Albus' office and take a seat near his desk.  One thing I'll say for young Harry, he apparently knows how to throw a fit.  The last time I was in this room I nearly had to shield my magic eye with my hand to get some relief from the bright magical signatures of Albus' arcane knicknacks.  Tonight most of those knicknacks are gone – although the most powerful auras, like that of the Sorting Hat, remain.

With a soft roar Albus steps out of the fireplace.  He regards me with an expression of mild surprise and amusement.  "Hello Moody.  I didn't know you missed your old school days _that_ much.  Have you come to join us at the Leavetaking Feast before making your rounds?"

 Albus' smile is bright, but his face is still as tired as it was at 12 Grimmauld Place.  "I'm surprised you haven't uppgraded your security here," I growl in order to remain in character – I find that, for some reason, people get rattled when I don't act like a constipated tomcat.  "If Fudge and Umbridge had spent more time investigating comings and goings on the floo network and less worrying about catching people in Hogwarts' fireplaces, they might well have found out about Grimmauld Place!"  Like all charms, the _fidelius_ has multiple weaknesses.  I suppose that's why Dumbledore doesn't rely on it in young Harry's case.

"If I had done that you would be complaining of bruised buttocks now Moony, and you would not be doing it in my office."  He gives me his Headmaster look.

"Why don't you forget the Feast and make the rounds with me Albus?  It would do you good to do some hard work for a change."  I thump the floor with the twisted cane I carry and make sure I scowl dramatically.

Dumbledore chuckles, as I had hoped.  "I gave up hard work long ago, old friend.  Now all I'm good for is presiding at endless faculty meetings and boring student Feasts."

"Oh, I don't know, you handled Riddle reasonably well."  I know that there is no good way to segue into the conversation, so I figure I might as well bull right on ahead.

"If you call getting Sirius killed and almost losing Harry handling things reasonably well, I suppose I did." Albus' voice is clipped and bitter, and suddenly his face has lost all trace of mirth.

I sigh and play with my cane.  I hate having arguments with Albus.  But more often than not he forces me to it.  "Albus, I think we had better discuss some things."

He leans back and folds his hands, lacing his fingers together and looking at me over his glasses.  

Too bad Albus.  That might work on the youngsters around here.  It won't do anything to intimidate me.  "And don't tell me you don't have time," I continue.  "The Feast doesn't start for nearly an hour and a half."

He lowers his head to stare at me fixedly over the tops of his spectacles.  "This is about the meeting we just had?"

"Yes it is."  I meet his gaze with my own – or with my natural eye, anyway.  The other one is bobbing around rapidly building a panoramic view of the office and its contents.

"You did not really answer my question.  Is the Potter boy about to come unglued?"

"If you mean is he going to collapse in the next few hours, no."  Albus then moves his gaze from mine to contemplate something over my left shoulder.  "If you are asking whether I think he is in danger of some kind of serious reaction to events, yes."

"I would say he's _already_ had a serious reaction!" I wave to indicate his office.  "By heaven Albus, if he was that mad he could have been dangerous!  He might have attacked you!"

"I had that possibility very much in mind for a few minutes," Albus says quietly.

"I should hope so!  It wouldn't do much for your reputation to explain how one of your students gave you a black eye!"

"I deserved much worse than that," he says without altering his tone.

"By all the stars and comets Albus, quit feeling sorry for yourself for a few minutes and worry about young Potter for a change!"  I bang my cane on the floor for emphasis.

He glares at me with a genuine look of anger – the one that could freeze falcons in mid-dive.  I just adjust my head so he has to face my bouncing eye.

"I have thought about nothing else..."

"I know, I know, you've been on about it all week."  I snort.  "But face it, Dumbledore, mostly you're just trying to vent your self-pity.  'Oh, isn't it awful that I made a mistake.  I'm so guilty. Oh, oh, oh.'  You're acting like a new auror after his first foul-up.  Or a student that gets caught doing something naughty and has to go to detention."

He's really mad now.  He's starting to swell.  He doesn't like very regal when he swell's like a puffer-fish, and Albus never lets himself consciously look less than regal when he's angry.  "Moody, do not try my patience."

"Oh save it Albus.  I've spent a year in a trunk and that alters your perspective a bit.  Now, as I was asking you back at Grimmauld Place, do we need to take Harry to St. Mungo's?  And I want better reasons than 'we can't risk it,' or 'I don't know.'"

"What is this fascination you have with St. Mungo's?"  Albus is trying to deflect me now with humor.  "Are you a fan of some of their more famous patients?"

"Lockheart you mean?  Not hardly.  And quit trying to evade the question!  The boy probably should have gone to see someone after Diggory died!  You know the procedure with young aurors!  You always give them counseling after they see their first death, and most of them are a good deal older than Mr. Potter."

He reaches into his desk and pulls out a sheet of parchment that he passes to me.  It's in Snape's handwriting.  How such a twisted man has such a clear, precise script is a mystery to me.  I feel the blood draining out of my skin as I read it.  It is a list of some suspected "sympathizers" at St. Mungo's.  Some of the names are...shocking.

"Perival-Lanham AND Clemence?  I find that hard to believe."

"So do I," Albus slumps in his chair, "but you understand the problem."

Between the two of them, Perival-Lanham and Clemence probably _are_ the top rank of mind-healers in Britain.  Their influence at St. Mungo's, at least for psychiatric patients, is absolute.  If they are sympathetic with the Dark Lord, allowing them access to an emotionally wounded Harry Potter would be a disaster of the first degree.

"I want to disbelieve it," Dumbledore continues, "but we have had cruel surprises before.  Now do you see what I mean when I say we can't risk it?"

I do.  If even one of these two is a follower of Voldemort, getting trustworthy help for a disturbed Harry Potter will prove intensely difficult.  There probably isn't an active mind-healer in Britain who hasn't trained under one or the other or usually both of them.  Although even I, paranoid as I am, can't believe Voldemort has his hands on all the mind-healers of Britain, it is true that anyone we approach might be tainted.  We have to assume so until we can be sure of Perival-Lanham and Clemence.

And proof of a negative is notoriously difficult to achieve.

"So there isn't anyone you think we dare trust?"

"Frankly not right now.  I trust Poppy implicitly of course, but knowledgable as she is she isn't an expert in this area.  And as you can appreciate, if either of these two really is on Voldemort's side, we would be handing Harry over to his worst enemies."  Albus rubs a hand over his eyes.

I regret my outburst earlier.  I should have known that Dumbledore always has reasons.  But damn it all, he should share them sometimes!

"What about from outside Britain?" I ask.

"As I said a couple of days ago, there is going to be a Council of War at Beauxbatons.  I leave Monday.  I plan to make inquiries there."

"But why in the name of Merlin are you sending him back to the muggles now Albus!  Couldn't he stay here in the meantime."

"It's for safety's sake Moody."

"So you keep saying.  Now you will please explain."  I let my magical eye roll in his direction in a way most people find extremely disturbing.

Then he does something I would never have expected in all my years.  I have known Dumbledore longer than anyone except for his brother, Aberforth.  I've even known him longer than Iris, the House Elf who has been with him for what seems like an eternity.  But for the first time in all those long days, he reaches over and takes my hand.

And then he explains.

When he is done he just sits there.  The expression on his face is bland and matter-of-fact, but his grip on my hand is so tight it's painful.

"Heaven save us all Albus, are you sure you did the right thing?"  I'm so overcome with conflicting emotions – shock and pity for the boy and pity for Albus and fear and anger and several other things – that I'm surprised I can speak.

"No."  And then he starts crying.  Which is something I really never had thought to see.

He's a good weeper though, I'll give him that.  The tears roll down his face like little diamonds.

"I love him Moody," he says suddenly.  "I should never have allowed that to happen.  But it did.  I love him and I don't know what to do."

"What's not to love?" I ask before I really think.  "The kid's a wonderful boy.  Stubborn and high-tempered as a devil with heat rash, and not too bright sometimes, but wonderful as they come."

"Oh Moody," Albus looks like he's the one who's going to come apart now, "what will I do if he dies?"

"If he dies?"  Now a lot of things make sense.  "He isn't going to die Albus.  We won't _let_ him die, now will we?  If Lord I'm-insane-and-I-want-to-make-the-world-a-living-Hell has it in for him because the kid blasted him out of a body fourteen years ago, we'll just have to part Lord Whatsit from his present body before he does anything to Harry."

I meant that to be comforting and supportive.  Why is Albus suddenly looking twice as old as he really is?  And when you're a hundred and forty-six that's saying something.

And then he tells me what the prophecy said.  _All _of what the prophecy said.

They told me the tear glands next to my magic eye would atrophy.  That I would never cry from that side again.

They were wrong.

"What will I do," Albus asks again, "if he dies?"

I don't know what to say.  What is there to say?  The kid is fifteen.  He's a good kid, clever and brave.  But he doesn't have any really extraordinary magical powers.  Sure, in time he could be something Great.  But he doesn't have time.  He has to kill or be killed, well, _now_.  And Riddle has about forty years and libraries worth of knowledge on him.

Logically speaking he doesn't have any chance at all of surviving to see his own graduation ceremony.

Logically speaking he should make out his own will.

Logic be damned to all the infernal depths.

"We will just have to make sure he wins, Albus."  

Dumbledore looks at me sadly.  He's been saying the same thing to himself for –how long?

"Albus," a struggle for words – and suddenly they come, "a long time ago when I was first made an Auror they used to tell us not to get close to anyone.  That love was a weakness.  That it would end up giving us chinks in our armor."  That was in the time of Grindlewald, which Albus recalls only all to well.

"I listened to them," I continue.  "I made sure I never loved anybody.  I was a fool."

How to say this?  How to convey the depths of loneliness?  How to explain the arid years?

Then I look at Albus and realize I don't have to explain.  He has done the same thing.

"I realize now I wasn't being strong Albus.  I was not wise or tough.  I was just afraid.  I was afraid and lazy and I did not want to fight."

He is gripping my so hard I'm afraid I'm about to have some missing fingers to go along with the missing nose.  But I don't mind.

"Of all the fights I fought, none was ever for me – that is for my heart.  None was ever for someone I truly loved."

I take a deep breath.

"But maybe it isn't too late entirely.  Albus, will you let me fight with you for _your_ heart.  For someone _you_ truly love?  You say you've made mistakes Albus.  So have I.  You have a chance to correct yours.  Let me have a chance to correct mine.  Give me a chance to fight a battle that's really important – not because it's for the Light or the World, but because it's for one heart – all right two hearts – and their chance to love."

He says nothing, but finally lowers his head in assent.

And so we sit silently through the long moments until he has to rise for the Leavetaking Feast.  Anyone who saw us then would probably have laughed in contempt.  Nothing but two old men.  Two old men holding hands and crying.

But in fact in those long moments we were readying ourselves for the battle to come.  And we wept both for sorrow and for hope.  For it would be the most important battle of all. 


	8. Hour of Truth

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG 13

Category-Angst/Drama

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Eight: Hour of Truth

The dirt tastes warm and slimy in my mouth as my face slams into the soft loam.  I lay there, my mind whirling...

_Get up fool!_

I press my hands into the ground on either side of my body, attempting to rise, but they sink into the treacherous soil.

_Punish them!  Show them who you are!_

The son of a felon?

I hear grunts as Crabbe and Goyle, ever faithful and dependably stupid, finally realize what has happened and begin looking around for someone to beat.  Of course, neither of them reaches down to help me up.

I would hurt them severely for such an insult.

Nevertheless, a clawlike grip suddenly attaches itself to my shoulder and I find myself pulled upwards.  I try to protest but my mouth is still full of dirt so I just spew soil.  I try to pull backwards and eye whoever it is haughtily with my well-known – and long practiced – cold gray stare, but the hand is too quick and yanks me forward.  I find myself looking up, still sputtering, into a round face framed by wild trails of gray hair.

_Sprout._

"Are you all right, Mr. Malfoy?"  She smiles that stupid, simpering smile of hers.  I manage to get to my full height, and wipe some of the dirt from my chin with the back of my sleeve.

_Your idiot Hufflepuffs tripped me_.

Of course I can't say that.  I can't _think_ that.  A Hufflepuff trip a Malfoy?

"We were just going to the Pitch to do some flying, Professor."  Oh that title feels like acid on my tongue.

"You'll want to watch your step around here, Mr. Malfoy.  We are about to put in new beds and the ground can be treacherous."

_Not as treacherous as your wretched House._

Did I, a Slytherin, just think that?

Sprout is looking at me and smiling.  No, make that _smirking_.  The stupid gardener is _smirking _at me!

"We were about to look in on the Memorial Garden.  You know, the one we planted in memory of dear Cedric.  Would you three like to see it?"

I must be imagining things.  For a minute there I thought I saw _Sprout_ show her teeth at me.

I'm trying to think of some way to get out of looking at whatever saccharine thing they've put together for Diggory (who at least had the grace to die when he was supposed to, unlike Potter), when Sprout looks up and smirks, yes _smirks_, again.

"Hello Severus.  Are you looking for your three escapees?"  Laughs all around from the Hufflepuffs.

How dare they!  I'm a prefect!  I should give them all detentions!

But I can't while Sprout is standing there and they know it, the filthy little cowards.

I turn as Professor Snape strides up.  It is _very_ early for him to be out on the grounds.  He looks at me and I feel a thrill.  He has come looking for me.  Has there been news from my father?  Has he broken free from Azkaban already?

"Professor Sprout."  Severus says the name like he finds it as distasteful as I do.  "Headmaster Dumbledore would like to speak with Mr. Malfoy."

_Dumbledore?  What does that old fool want?_

An old fool who just put the Master to flight, by all reports.

_I will NOT believe that!_

"Well, then you had better hurry and clean yourself up, Mr. Malfoy." She gives me a little shove.  A chorus of laughs sounds from the Hufflepuffs.

Severus' eyes glitter and I feel a surge of warmth.  They will learn now what it means to taunt Slytherin House!  He opens his mouth and...

"Oh and I nearly forgot," Sprout's creaking screech sounds like a dying barn owl, "twenty points apiece from Slytherin for ruining our plant beds."

Severus' eyes bulge like he's been kicked in the groin.

"Is there a problem, Professor Snape?"  Sprout is _smirking_ again.

Severus closes his mouth with a crack, spins on his heel, and walks stiffly away.  I hurry to follow him, and Crabbe and Goyle scramble to follow me.  The laughter of Hufflepuffs follows us all the way inside.

Crabbe and Goyle depart from us with a couple of sharp commands from Snape.  He and I continue on towards Dumbledore's office.

"What does he want, Sir?"  My father has had many doubts about Snape, but right now he is the best ally I have.

"I don't know, Mr. Malfoy."

Suddenly anger and resentment and disappointment all rise in my chest.  "That idiot Umbridge!" I hiss.  "We had them!  We had Potter and Dumbledo...."  I am cut off as Snape grasps me by the front of my robes and propels me, none to gently, against the wall.

"Shut up you young fool!  Haven't I told you before!"

Yes he has.  Snape has always warned us only to talk about the Master's business in the dungeons, where his wards protect us from Dumbledore and McGonagall and their spying methods.  I nod.

He releases me and stands while I straighten my robes.  Then he leans forward and hisses, "I don't know what the Headmaster wants – he isn't in the habit of confiding in me.  Just watch your tongue young man.  Remember, your father won't be able to help you from now on!"

He had to remind me.  

"Mother is still free!"

_Oh good one Draco.  My mommy can beat your daddy._

"Boy," Snape looks like I'm something he would like to step on, "do you _really_ think Narcissa is a match for Albus Dumbledore?" He smiles his nastiest, meanest smile.  "I wouldn't even bet on her against Molly Weasley."

_Oh that really hurt._

"Now see here..."

"Silence!"  He grasps my arm and I almost wince in pain at his grip.  "You probably think you've been playing a dangerous game, don't you Draco?  Well, from now on you're juggling razor blades on the edge of a lion pit!  So you had better quit contemplating your family name and start contemplating ways to survive until the Master can make his next move!  And I'm telling you now is not the time for your tongue to start wagging!  If that old man decides to expel you there isn't anybody from Fudge on down who'll be able to stop him.  Not after what happened this week.  Not," he sighs, "for a while anyway."

_Expelled?  But he couldn't!_

"He couldn't!" I almost cry.

"Didn't you hear me boy?  Your family name isn't worth a phony knut now that everyone knows about the Master's return and your father's support for him."  He purses his lips and scowls.  "What the Hell did you mean pulling a wand on Potter like that?"

"He sent my father to prison!"

"So he did, and right now he's also the darling of the entire wizarding world – AGAIN!  Idiot, idiot, idiot boy!  If he's complained to Dumbledore and the old man decides to throw you out you might as well take a boat for Azkaban yourself.  Once it gets into the _Daily Prophet _and the _Quibbler_ that you got expelled for threatening Potter – and never fear the intrepid Miss Granger will make sure it does get into the press – there won't be any refuge for you in all of Wizarding Europe!"

"But you were there!  Couldn't you..."

"The Master's needs come first Draco, you know that."  His voice is as cold as a glacier.

And of course he is right.  The Master needs him here, where he can help loyal students and keep an eye on Dumbledore.  My father would be the first to agree.  Even if it means I have to be expelled.

We reach the entrance to Dumbledore's office.  I look at Snape expectantly.

"He wants to see you, not me.  The password is _marshmallow._

_Stupid old man_.

I walk slowly into the office.  I've been here before, rarely.  I remember it being much more cluttered.  

The portraits scowl at me.  I note that the frame that usually contains Phineus Nigellus is empty.

"Professor Dumbledore?" I call.

"He will be along shortly young man," the fat wizard behind Dumbledore's desk frowns at me, "so have a seat and don't touch anything."

I start to reply stingingly.  But now is not the time to be arguing with a headmaster.  Even a dead one in a portrait.  I take a seat.

I wait.  And wait.  And wait.

After about half an hour one of the inner doors opens and Dumbledore walks in.  He is carrying a very large book in one hand and what looks like a decanter of wine in the other.  

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy.  Have you been waiting long?"

"No sir," I lie.

"Oh I think you have."  He regards me with that stupid expression that makes him look like a slightly crazed Father Christmas.  "I'm sorry.  I got caught up talking with Madam Pince and lost track of time."

Why anyone would want to talk to Madam Pince, much less lose track of time in the conversation, I do not know.

"She was helping me with this fascinating book.  Perhaps you've heard of it?  It's called _The Treatment of Magical Diseases in Southeastern Siberia in the late Seventeenth Century._  Excellent reading.  Why, there is a whole section here about uses of Tundra beetles in curing aberrant fertility charms!  I've never run into any research on the subject before."

_I wonder why_.

"I've never heard of them being used for that, Headmaster."

"Oh, I had.  I just didn't know _why_.  But I suppose we can discuss that later."  He put the book down – for which I breathe a great sigh of relief.

"Tired?" Dumbledore asks brightly.  "Of course you are.  O.W.L.s and all, not to mention the trouble with your father.  Here," he sets out two glasses and pours some of the wine into them, "have a drink with me.  I don't suppose I should offer, but one glass of wine won't hurt.  And this is from a very exclusive winery.  I would hate to drink it alone."

I take a look at the label, and reluctantly raise my respect for the old blowhard a notch.  It is indeed a _very_ exclusive winery.  My father only uses this particular vintage on extremely formal occasions.

I accept the glass and clink it with his (the fool insists).  Swishing it around, I inhale the bouquet (that is very important) and sip it delicately.  The taste is indeed exquisite.  Dumbledore, of course, just slurps his down like it was butterbeer.  

"Now," the Headmaster says briskly, still smiling cheerfully, "I don't want to keep you too much longer.  You have so much to do I'm sure.  Especially since you might never be coming back."

I almost choke.

_He IS going to expel me.  The old bastard!_

"Not coming back sir?  I have every intention of returning in September." I smile my sweetest smile.  It really is extremely sweet.  Honestly.

"I'm sure you do."  Dumbledore's cheer has not slipped one bit. "But you see, we have to decide whether we are going to allow you to come back."  He leans back, laces his fingers together, and regards me benevolently.

"Is this about the incident with Potter sir?  I can explain!  I did pull my wand first, but...."  Now why did I just admit that?

"Oh, did you pull a wand on Harry?  I had not heard."  His face is completely serene.

"Yes I did sir."  What am I doing?!

"That is truly unfortunate.  However, I am thinking more about the revelations concerning your family.  We can hardly have someone here who is keeping all sorts of dark secrets related to Voldemort, can we?"

I wince as he says the Dark Lord's name so casually.

"What?  Does that bother you?  Would you prefer if I called him Tom?  That's what I called him when he was my student."

_Not listening. NOT listening._

"In any case, I thought it would be best if we spoke about some things.  I am sure you will tell me the truth."

"I give you my word, sir."  This is going to be too easy.

"I take it for what it is worth, Mr. Malfoy.  There is also the fact that Professor Sprout was kind enough to lace this decanter with the juice of _Alethos_ berries.  Have you heard of them?"

I shake my head, suddenly apprehensive.

"I suppose they are covered in N.E.W.T. level herbology – which I would highly recommend.  Fascinating topic.  Anyway, the juice of those berries acts like a very powerful truth drug – something similar to a natural _veritaserum_.

_No wonder the old hag was smirking!_

"You've drugged me?"  I leap to my feet.  I am, in that instant, angrier than, than .... well, I'm very angry.

"I have indeed." His expression is still serene and smiling.

"That's illegal!"

_Oh, way to tell him Draco!_

"Certainly.  Do you want to lodge a complaint?  With whom exactly?"

_Stupid old man.  Of course I'll lodge a complaint.  Why my father will...._

I sit down heavily.

"Now," Dumbledore says brightly, "we are going to have a little give and take.  I'll ask you questions and you will answer.  If I'm satisfied you can stay in school.  If not, well I understand that Durmstrang is accepting transfers.  Your blood's pure enough."

_A little joke.  Ha ha. Very funny._

"Give and take," I say.  "Does that mean I get to ask you questions?"

"Why of course, it would hardly be fair otherwise, now would it?"  There goes that idiot twinkling again.

_Except you drank the wine too, old man._

"Although," he continues, holding up one bony finger, "I should tell you that I took steps to render myself immune to the effects of the _Alethos _berry before coming in.  I'm afraid that is why I had to keep you waiting so long.  I had to be sure the anti-toxin was working."

My mouth falls open.

"I mean," he continues, "I could hardly have you going home and blabbing all sorts of secrets to your dear mother, now could I?  Especially when I'm sure she would run straight to Tom."

"You...."

"Temper, Mr. Malfoy."  He smiles that hateful gentle smile.  "I am prepared to be as fair as I can.  I give you my word that I will answer any question truthfully that does not involve secrets of the struggle against Voldemort.  And unlike you my word is good."

_Why you insulting old barfbag_.

"So, I'll go first.  Did you know your father was a deatheater?"

"Yes."  Hell and damnation.

"Your turn."

What to ask.  So many things.  So many questions.

And then it slips out.

"Why did you give Gryffindor House 170 points at the Leavetaking Feast my first year?"

If he is surprised he does not show it.  He merely taps his fingertips together.  "Good question, Mr. Malfoy.  First, because the individuals deserved it.  But that does not answer why I did it at the Feast, does it?  I mean, I might have awarded the points privately and saved the pride of Slytherin House."

_Yes, you might have you miserable old bastard._

"I wanted to make Harry smile."

_Did I just hear what I think I just heard?_

"Do you have access to any of Voldemort's plans?"

"No."  Damnation!

My turn again.  I'm tempted to ask him to repeat himself, but I'm not going to waste a question.

"Do the teachers other than Professor Snape really dislike us just because we're Slytherins?"

The Gryffindors might complain to high heaven about Snape, but when you look at the total number of detentions given and points subtracted, it often seems like _everybody_ is out for Slytherin blood.

"Yes."

_That was short and sweet._

"Does your mother have access to Voldemort's plans?"

"I don't know."  This is incredibly annoying!

"Do you personally dislike us just because we are Slytherins?"

"No."

I blink.  He said he wouldn't lie!  Lying old scoundrel!

"Have you ever been to a meeting of deatheaters?"

"No."

Dumbledore pats his fingers together again – annoying habit – and waits.

"Do you like me?"  Now where in the name of Salazar did that come from?

"No."

_Why does that hurt?_

"When will you receive the mark?"

"It was supposed to be this year.  Now, I don't know."  Did I _have_ to tell him all that?

"Why don't you like me?"  WHY AM I ASKING THIS?!

"Many reasons.  You are arrogant, cruel, and not nearly as intelligent as you like to think.  Your beliefs are, frankly, obnoxious to anyone with a shred of decency.  You are the foul fruit of a twisted family tree that has produced nothing but pain and sorrow for three centuries.  And most of all, because you have tried to hurt Harry."

_Why does that REALLY hurt?_

"Do you know where Voldemort or any deatheaters are hiding?"

"No."

What to ask next?

"Why did you make me a prefect if you dislike me so much?"

"It was politically convenient for many reasons.  It still is.  You will likely remain a prefect.  You may well even be Head Boy."

_I don't feel thrilled._

"Does that mean I'm staying?"

"Yes.  I never had any intention of expelling you."

He looks at me expectantly.

"Don't you have any more questions?" I venture.

"No," he smiles, "but go ahead.  It's the least I can do.  For a little while longer anyway."

_Thank you so damned much_.

"Do you really favor Potter over all the other students?"

"Oh yes.  Very much so."  His face is still serene.  Damn him straight to Hell.

"WHY?!!" I come to my feet before I realize it.  

_Now you knew that already.  Why does hearing it upset you so much?_

"Because I love him, that's why.  And no dirty insinuations Mr. Malfoy.  He is the son I wish I had fathered."  He smiles at me, and for some reason the smile is sad and the look in his eyes is .... pity.

Of all the things he could have given me, pity is the worst.

"I hate you."  True, but why did I say it now?

"I know."  More pity.

"Can I go now?"  I have to force the question out past a knot in my throat.

"Yes."

I turn, seething and angry and strangely hurting.  I hear him rising and circling his desk but all I want to do is reach the door and get out of here.  I put my hand out and touch the knob.

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes?" I say wearily, turning.  

I see his wand first, and then the sad look in his eyes.  That awful sad, kind, pitying look.  I open my mouth to protest.

"_Obliviate." _

I come awake in a chair in Snape's office, the sound of Hufflepuff laughter in my ears.  Damn them and damn Sprout!  And right in front of Severus.  Crabbe and Goyle are stirring in the other two chairs.  I rub my head, which is aching fiercely.

The door opens with a loud bang that nearly causes my head to split.  Severus stalks in and gives us a look of pure disgust.

"Very well," he says, "go on.  Your detention's over!"

Oh yes.  He gave us detentions as punishment for losing points to Sprout.  Not very fair.  But Severus never is.

I stumble out of his office, cursing.  The morning is almost gone.  At least Snape lets us sleep through our detentions.  Crabbe and Goyle follow along as usual.

Well there is nothing to do but drag myself up to the Great Hall for lunch.  Great.  Just great.  As if things weren't bad enough, Leavetaking is shaping up to be a ruin.

I stalk out of the dungeons.  Maybe food will improve my mood.  

If only I could figure out why my head is hurting so badly.

If only I could figure out why suddenly I want to cry.


	9. Worthless Moon

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating- PG 13

Category-Angst/Drama

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Nine: Worthless Moon

Soon it will be time.  The moon is waxing quickly.  Already it is nine-tenths full.  In another night, yes it will be time.

Time is very important to my kind.  We live with it in our bones.  We feel it in our pulse.  We breathe it in with the dirt and smoke and smells.  We feel ourselves caught in a dance we cannot any more alter than we can prevent the rising of the sun.  Or, for that matter, the rising of the moon.

We learn very early not to battle the cycles.  We learn not to rage against the tides.  No, we must ride the rhythms of the cosmos and accept our place as just another link in the chain of laws that binds both natural and supernatural.

If we have any hope of surviving at all, we must learn not to fight.  We must accept.  We must....

We must become useless.

I am sitting in the largest room of 12 Grimmauld Place.  I have no need to go outside to see the moon.  I can feel it from here quite adequately.  Even the _fidelius_ charm will not keep out that influence.  No secret keeper can hide me from the cruel sight of Selene.

I should be preparing to brew my wolfsbane potion.  Severus is on a mission and will not be able to provide it, and I do not have the funds to purchase a supply.  I am sure if worse came to worse Dumbledore would lend me the money without a problem.  I hate to ask though.  Dumbledore has so much on his mind.  Sometimes it would help to have a rich friend.

I pry myself up from the couch and make my way to the kitchen.  I have begun making motions at preparing ingredients.  I move to the counter and pick up a knife to resume chopping.  Then I put it down again with a sigh.  What, after all, is the point in hurrying?

_I should be with Harry._

And what would I possibly do for him?  

_I could love him._

I already do love him.

_You have a strange way of showing it._

When you're a werewolf absence is often a very good way of showing love.

But that is something of a lie too.  It's not just when you are a werewolf.  It's when you're Remus Lupin.  After all, I showed Harry my love for twelve years by never once looking in on him, didn't I?  I showed Sirius my love by letting him go to Azkaban, even though I was certain he had to be innocent.

I walk out onto the back porch and look up at the moon, fat and pregnant in the sky.  Pregnant with pain and change.  Pregnant with a life that I hate but cannot escape.  Pregnant with my own futility.

I have an article in the bottom of my trunk that I cut from muggle magazine several years ago.  It was written by an American anthropologist who had spent a year with a small tribe of Indians in the Amazon River basin.  The body of the article is an interview with the tribe's chief.  I have read it so often I can easily recall the words.

_Once we thought the moon was a god.  On the first night of a full moon we would have a great feast with singing and dancing and chanting of the ancient hymns.  Then we heard that your people had gone there, to the moon, and found it was only a big rock._

_            So you no longer have the feasts? _(prompted the anthropologist)

            _Oh yes, we still have the feasts with the singing and dancing.  But now instead of the ancient hymns we chant:_

_            Foolish Moon we know you now_

_            Worthless Moon you have no power_

_            Stupid Moon you are only a big rock_

When I first saw that article I knew it summed up my life perfectly.

            _Worthless Moon you have no power._

What more is there to say?  Harry is at Hogwarts, bleeding from a wound so terrible he probably cannot comprehend it.  I sit here, bleeding from the same wound.  And I'm going to let both of us go right on bleeding, because I have no power.

_I'm sorry Harry.  I can't be the father for you that Sirius could have.  Look to someone else – someone with power.  Find someone who won't betray you._

And who would that be?

I go back inside and resume chopping my ingredients.

I hear the sound of someone coming down the stairs.  As there is only one other in residence at Grimmauld Place at the moment (well, two others but Buckbeak has four feet) I am able to call a greeting to Tonks as she reaches the hallway.

"Wow," she says a moment later from the kitchen doorway, "is your nose _really_ that good."

Well, yes.  I did smell her, come to that.  Unlike most women she does not smell of shampoos and hair gels and cosmetics – her powers as a Metamorphmagus make all that moot.  Rather she smells of the faint perfume she uses, of sweat (she is very active physically), of dirt from constantly brushing against surfaces in this house that remains old and dusty despite Molly's repeated attacks, and of bruises (those smell rather like over-ripe grapes) from her frequent falls, trips, and other misadventures.

But I decide not to go in to all that.

"I heard you.  I take it you can't sleep either."

"No, I can't."  She sounds tired and worried.  Why not?  We are all tired and worried.  I turn to her.  She is still wearing the jeans and pullover she had on at the meeting of the Order this evening.  She has allowed her hair to fade from two-toned to all pink.  Otherwise her appearance is the same.  "I thought I would have a snack."

"Help yourself, there's plenty.  In fact, I'll join you."  After a few minutes of bustling we are both seated at the table with large sandwiches and glasses of pumpkin juice.

"What are you making?" she asks, gesturing to the scattered ingredients on the counter.

"My wolfsbane potion," I say simply.  "The moon is almost full."

"Oh.  That must be why you're up then."  Why does she sound so disapproving?

_Because I should be thinking of how to help Harry.  Or at least how to help myself._

"Yes it is.  Severus can't make it this cycle and, well, I'm out of money."  I'm ashamed of that.  I don't know why, but I am.  Damn the Ministry anyway!

"You could borrow it," she says around a mouthful of sandwich.  "I'm sure you could pay it back later."

"From who?" I say more bitterly than I mean.  "It isn't as if anyone I know has lots of extra cash.  The potion is very expensive.  I could use Order funds, but we need those for more important things."

She regards me with a strange frown.  "First of all," she says calmly, "I'm not sure keeping me, or any of the others, from an encounter with an uncontrolled werewolf is exactly a low priority.   Not the highest, I'll grant you, but I wouldn't call it unimportant."

I open my mouth to protest that that is not what I meant, but she just holds up her hand to forestall me.  "Secondly, I'm not sure you're thinking through all your resources."

"Meaning?"  I hope this isn't going to be another cheer-Moony-up speech.  I've had several of those already this week and they don't do any good.

"Meaning, it's my understanding that Harry Potter is actually rather wealthy.  Why don't you ask him for the money?"

"What?"  I feel myself blinking stupidly.

Tonks shrugs.  "Why don't you ask Harry for the money?"

"Well, for one thing I was his professor."

"And he dislikes you enough that he would like to see you go through a transformation without the potion?"  She takes a huge bite of her sandwich and waits for an answer.

"Well, no.  I don't guess that's the case."

"Good.  When we meet him at the station tomorrow ask him."

"How?"  Idiot question, but this whole line of conversation has me flummoxed.

"Oh something like – 'Harry it's the full moon tonight and I can't afford my potion.  Could I charge it to your vault?' – ought to do the trick."  The rest of the sandwich disappears in a very unladylike gulp.

"I couldn't do that!"

_Why not?_

Because I'm afraid if I show weakness, he'll start to love me.

"Suit yourself." She shrugs again.  __

"Harry has just lost his godfather!"

"And you've just lost your best friend.  I'd think that doing something for an old friend might help cheer the kid up.  Make him feel useful and part of the group, you know."

_Except that being part of the group should not involve loving me.  It's too dangerous._

"I'll think about it."

"Meaning you won't do it." Tonks gives me a look of disgust. "Like I said, suit yourself.  I'm going back to bed."

She rises to take her dirty dishes over to the sink.  Snagging her pants leg on her chair she does a small dance across the floor, an athletic maneuver that involves juggling her plate and saucer while twirling her cup around one finger.  She manages it without so much as a chipped rim.  I can't help but chuckle.

"Oh ho, he finds something funny," she says with good humor.  "And just when I've learned how not to fall over that umbrella stand in the hallway!  I wish I could have cheered up Dumbledore as easily."

"He was very down tonight, wasn't he?  He worries a lot about Harry."

_Don't we all._

"He has good reason to be worried," Tonks says softly.  "It can't be easy to be fifteen and have the Dark Lord for your number one enemy.  I thought it was bad enough having to deal with Severus Snape at that age!"

"No," I say, "it is very hard on Harry."

Then why am I here and not with him?

_Worthless Moon._

"Hard on Dumbledore too," Tonks continues.  "He really cares about that boy."

Yes, Dumbledore does care about Harry.  That is the one spark of hope I have.  I am worthless.  Worthless Moony.  But Dumbledore is powerful.  He can be the parent Harry needs.

"I wish Sirius hadn't died." I say quietly.  I want to cry, but I won't

"I know."  Tonks lays her hand on my shoulder.  I manage a grimace of a smile and turn back to my potion ingredients.  After a few moments, I hear her climbing the stairs again.

Yes, Dumbledore is Harry's best hope.

_Still._

I remember Dumbledore's face this evening.  The way he spoke about Harry.  And suddenly, irrationally, desperately, I am angry.

I put down the knife and breathe deeply.  This is not unusual near the full moon.  But generally I have more warning before a wave of temper hits.

_Yes Albus, I know you love Harry.  I know you are sorry that Sirius is gone._

Or are you?

_I can't think like that.  I WON'T think like that._

Of course Albus is sorry Sirius is gone.  

_Then again._

I know Albus is SORRY Sirius is gone.  I'm just not sure he's sorry SIRIUS is gone.  Standing there in the kitchen, suddenly engulfed in rage, I wonder for the first time if he is truly mournful for the loss of that wonderful, stubborn, noble man with his barking laugh and his fierce heart.  Or is he just mournful that Harry is hurting?  Is he sad about Sirius, or is he sad about Harry's godfather?

Am I the only one who misses SIRIUS?  Am I the only one who longs for Padfoot to return in his own right?  Am I the only one who loves him as something other than a way to make Harry smile?

_No, you are not alone.  Harry loved SIRIUS._

That's true.  Harry and I, we know what it means to miss Sirius Black.

Then why am I not with Harry?

_Worthless Moon.  Stupid Moony._

Sirius.  Twelve years in Hell, three years on the run, only to die because you got pushed through an archway by your bitch cousin's spell.  And all for a prophecy that was lost anyway.

I am angry with Dumbledore.  I am angry with Harry – why didn't he let us kill Peter when we had the chance?  At least Sirius could have lived free in the light.  Were a thirteen-year-old boy's scruples worth Sirius' suffering?  I am angry with Sirius for not staying put in Grimmauld Place as he was told.

Sitting down at the table again, I put my head in my hands.  The draw of the waxing moon is like a tide in my blood.  It throbs in my head, in my arms, in my legs.

_I can't do this._

It doesn't matter.  The world will go on whether I can or not.

_Stupid Moon._

And now a new thought.  Is Dumbledore truly all that sorry even that Harry's godfather is gone?

_No.  It is the moon talking._

So it is.  The moon summons forth the despair in my heart.  It cloaks all my thoughts in darkness and desire.

And still I wonder, is Albus secretly glad that Padfoot is gone?

After all, Sirius was the only one that stood between him and Harry.  With Padfoot gone, Albus has Harry all to himself.  Only Molly Weasley would dare stand up to him.  And Molly's love is that of a mother.  Albus can abide that.  But he can't abide another father for Harry.

_This is insanity._

So it is.  But it is also the will of the moon.  There is a reason they used to call it lunacy.

Yes, Albus has no competition now.  Who will fight him for Harry?  Who is left?

Only Worthless Moony.

_Worthless Moon, you have no power._

I rise slowly and return to my chopping board.  The moon knows no reprieve.  I am not a man who can fight the world.  I am a man the world does things to.

As I chop I wonder if the werewolf tears falling into the ingredients will affect the potion.  But I know in my heart they will not.

They are as worthless as the rest of me.

A/N: The moon illumination described here (waxing with 90% illumination – i.e. just short of full) is accurate for London on the evening of 28 July, 1996 (at least according to the people at the U.S. Naval Observatory, and who am I to argue?).  

Also, the story about the Amazonian tribe is based on fact.  This comes from fieldwork a friend of mine did in the Amazon Valley in the 1970s.  The only alteration I have made is that the real tribe holds its feasts on nights of a lunar eclipse, not nights of the full moon.


	10. Paladin of Dreams

Author-Dzeytoun

Rating-PG 13

Categories: Angst/Drama

A/N:  This takes place on the morning of Wednesday, 26 June, 1996.  

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Ten:  Paladin of Dreams

_OK.  It's time to wake up_.

I bite my tongue hard as we pass out of the Hospital Wing.  Salty, tangy blood fills my mouth.  

_Wake up._

I've had a brilliant thought as I lay in my bed recuperating from my tangle with the brains in the Ministry.  It's all a dream.  All of this horrible, terrible, unthinkable year is a nightmare I'm having.  That's it.  That HAS to be it.

Hermione has said something.  I look at her blankly.  Between the throbbing in my mouth and the incessant effort to force myself awake, I have completely missed what she was talking about.  Strange considering how strictly alert I've been to Hermione lately.  To her voice, her gestures, her smell.

_Her smell?  I've GOT to be dreaming._

"I said," she repeats patiently and with that cute -- no, make that _adorable_ -- long-suffering manner of hers, "that we should go to the Great Hall.  Harry is probably having breakfast."

"You go on," I manage to say around my sore tongue.  "I'll be along in a few minutes."

She gives me a puzzled look, like I've grown another nose or something.  Refusing food isn't like me.

The truth is I'm afraid she's right.  I'm afraid Harry _will_ be in the Great Hall.  And if I see him it will be that much harder to make myself wake up.

Finally she just shrugs and walks off toward the Hall while I take a sharp left and head in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.  I figure if I lay down it will be easier to snap out of the dream.  It least I've got some vague notion along those lines.

_Wake up.  _I keep trying to encourage myself awake as I move down the silent hallways, slowly chewing my abused tongue.  _Get up.  Get up and get yourself out of this nightmare._

It HAS to be a nightmare.  That is the only thing that makes sense.  There is no way things could have gone this wrong.  There is no way everybody could have acted like – well, like giant pricks all year long.  And certainly there isn't any way Sirius could be dead.  No, that is TOTALLY impossible.  We have to clear his name so Harry can live with him.  Yes, I'm dreaming.

It's July of 1995.  I'm just upset because of what happened to Harry last month in the tournament.  That's it.  I'll wake up any minute now and go downstairs to see Mum.  I bet there'll be a message from Dumbledore saying Harry can come and spend his birthday with us!  He has to let Harry come to us, he just couldn't leave him in that house with those people for so long.  Dumbledore wouldn't do that.  That's why this is a dream.

All the trouble with the Daily Prophet will turn out to be a part of the dream too.  Fudge is a git and always has been, but the Prophet and the rest of the wizarding world know enough to trust Harry.  Of course they do!  They would never turn on him like they have in this silly nightmare.  Harry is a hero.  They couldn't treat him that way.  It just wouldn't be right.

And maybe, just maybe, when I go downstairs Percy will be there.  That's another reason this is all a nightmare.  Percy just couldn't act they way he has in this dream.  He couldn't turn his back on us.  He couldn't try to hurt Harry that way.

No, it's just ridiculous!  Percy _is_ stuffy, but he wouldn't do the things I've been dreaming about.  Not my brother who used to come and find me when Mum had yelled at me or the twins had teased me or I had had a nightmare about spiders.  Not Percy who would pick me up and take me to his bedroom and rock me and cuddle me until I quit crying.  It was Percy who helped me bury my puffskein after the twins used it for bludger practice.  It was Percy who yelled at them so loud that for once it was them who went crying to Mum.

Percy wouldn't be such a git.  Not Percy, who came to me at the end of my first year when I was in the Hospital Wing after battling McGonagall's chess set.  Not Percy, who thought I was asleep and wrapped his arms around me and kissed me and cried while he rocked me back and forth like he used to do when I was little.

Yes, maybe Percy will be there when I go down to the kitchen.  He'll have some silly boring thing to say about cauldron bottoms or flying carpet imports.  And we will all roll our eyes but I'll make sure I sit next to him so I can maybe give him a hug when nobody else is looking.  I would like that a lot, even though I would rather die than admit it – especially in front of any of my other brothers.  I would really like to hug pompous, sweet, kind, perfect Percy and know that it's all been a dreadful nightmare.

Maybe we can have Hermione over too.  That would be great!  Harry and Hermione can both come to stay, and in a few days we will get our Hogwarts Letters and of course Harry and Hermione will both get prefect badges and I won't but that will be all right because I would gladly, gladly give up this hunk of metal if this year turns out to be a dream.

Except I'm not waking up.  I've turned two of the corners heading toward the tower and I've ground my tongue until I can't stand it any more and I'm not waking up.

OK.  It's August.  That's right, it's August and we are at 12 Grimmauld Place and I'm upset and excited and it's making me have strange dreams.  That's what it is.  

That won't be so bad.  I'll have my prefect badge, and that will be nice because truth to tell it made me feel really good to be named prefect and Harry didn't mind – at least not much.  And it's true that Harry has had to stay with those muggles all summer and got attacked by Dementors, but he repelled them – he's Harry after all!  Fudge is acting like a prick but Dumbledore will take care of it and he'll have a good explanation for why Harry had to stay isolated this summer.  And Percy has had a fight with Dad and has acted really stupid and hurtful to Mum but that's just because he's tired and confused.  Once he figures out what Fudge is really like we'll fix it.  Harry is angry and hurt and he yelled at us and that cut me deep inside, but he didn't mean it and we can fix that too.

Except that I'm on the stairs now.  I'm on the stairs and I haven't woken up yet.

Wake up.  Oh please, please, wake up!

It's October.  It's October and everything's wrong.  Dumbledore is being really strange and everybody is acting stupid and hurtful toward Harry.  Harry is angry and confused and he won't listen to anybody and it's just horrible because of what that hag Umbridge has done to him.  That's why I'm having this nightmare.  It's the night of that awful, terrible detention when he came back with his hand bleeding like it had been chewed on by a dragon and I'm so angry and scared and confused that's why I'm having this nightmare.

OK, so Umbridge is real and those detentions and that damned quill are real and nothing is right because everybody is acting like they've gone insane.  But Sirius is still at Grimmauld place and I'll owl him in the morning and tell him what's going on.  He'll make Harry listen to us!  He and Hermione and me and maybe Professor Lupin will figure out what to do.  We'll MAKE Harry go to McGonagall and tell her what's happening.  If that doesn't work we'll MAKE him go to see Dumbledore.  Damn Harry for being so stubborn!  Doesn't he know how much it upsets Hermione to see him with his hand bleeding like that?  Doesn't he know how much it upsets me?

But now I'm at the top of the stairs, and I'm still in the middle of the nightmare.

OK.  It's November and Harry won't listen and the Umbridge bitch has just given him and the twins lifetime quidditch bans for defending my family.  I never felt so bad in my life as when he told me that.  That explains why I'm having this dream.  Harry is in the bed next to me suffering because of everything he's lost and what's been done to him and I'm sick with shame and horror.

How could they?  How could they treat Harry, MY Harry, Harry who's more to me than any of my brothers, that way?  How could they mock him and ridicule him and torture him and take away everything he loves and then laugh about it?  This isn't what's supposed to happen!  You don't treat heroes like that!  Where are all those people who were falling all over him last year?  Where are bloody McGonagall and Dumbledore?

But we can still fix it.  We'll get Sirius and Lupin and MAKE Harry listen to reason.  We'll all go to see Dumbledore and make him explain what's going on.  We'll go – where?  I know, we'll go to see Percy!  He's been acting like a total git, but he doesn't understand what's happening.  We'll explain to him about the quill and Umbridge and the Prophet and the quidditch ban and he'll help us.  I know he will!

I'm walking down the last corridor towards the Fat Lady, and I'm still not awake.

It's Christmas.  It's Christmas and Dad is in St. Mungo's and Percy won't even come to see him and Harry is having dreams and visions that frighten me so much I feel like my insides have turned to water.  Everything is wrong, everything!

Harry is suffering and in pain and he's having visions so bad they make him vomit and there isn't anything I can do!  Dad is sick and hurting and Percy has turned his back on all of us and there isn't anything I can do!  

I pass the Fat Lady.  The Common Room is deserted.  The tower is silent.  I start to ascend to our dormitory.

It's February or March or April.  Harry is under constant attack from all sides and I can't help and I just want to scream at everybody to leave him alone.

Please, please let me wake up.  Hermione and I will make it our purpose in life that Harry practices his Occlumency.  Hell, I'll even take classes with that potion-making bastard myself if it will encourage Harry to practice and close his mind to the visions and attacks.

I reach the dormitory.

I'm still in the Hospital Wing.  I'm in the Hospital Wing and I'm unconscious because of the battle at the Ministry but Sirius wasn't there and he didn't get killed and I'll wake up and he'll still be at Grimmauld Place and we can still clear his name.

I pass into the room.  It is empty except for Harry's bed.  He is resting on it, his eyes closed in fitful sleep, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt.  As I watch he tosses and moans and gives a soft sob.  Even from the door I can see that his face is wet with tears.

It's not a dream.

I'm frozen now.  Frozen in horror and shock and pity and anger and fear and so many other things I can't name.  

Sirius is dead.  He's dead and everything happened and it's all wrong, wrong, WRONG!

Somebody else is in the room.  I can feel them.  When you have a best friend with an invisibility cloak you get good at that type of thing.

"Hello?" I call softly, not wanting to wake Harry.  I move into the dormitory and cautiously pull back a couple of curtains, careful so that light doesn't fall across Harry's face.  The rays of illumination pour in like thick honey.  

The room is empty.

I move over the bed and look down at Harry.  Without really thinking, I sit on the edge of the bed.  It is warm, as if someone were sitting there just recently.

Great, now I'm paranoid.  Not that this year wouldn't be enough to make anybody loony.

There is a glass on the nightstand, along with several potion bottles.  Sleeping draughts probably, and numerous other foul concoctions.  They aren't doing much good.  Harry is still sobbing softly.

Fuck it.

I position myself full length on the bed next to Harry and carefully take him in my arms.  He is so small, so fragile.  

"It's all right Harry," I whisper, drawing him close, "It's all right."

Harry turns into my arms and cuddles against my chest, his head bent under my chin.  I wrap my arms around him tightly, tangling the fingers of one hand in his sopping, sweaty hair while I massage his back with the other.

"Go ahead and cry mate," I say softly, resting my cheek against the top of his head.  "I'm here, your Wheezy's here."  I feel my breath starting to hitch as tears begin to trickle from my own eyes.  "It's OK Harry.  You're safe.  Your Wheezy has you."

It's not OK.  Nothing's OK.  This wasn't supposed to happen!  We were going to clear Sirius and Harry was going to leave those hateful muggles and have a real father!  This wasn't the plan.

I had a plan.  I never talked about it with anyone, but I had it and I was sure it was going to work.  Harry was going to defeat You-Know-Who – he's Harry after all – and go live with Sirius and Fudge was going to apologize and Harry was going to be loved and honored and respected like a hero is supposed to be.  He was going to be a great Auror and I was going to do whatever.  Hermione would be the greatest scholar of the century.  And we would all be so happy!  Especially Harry.  He deserves it so much.  My Harry deserves to be happy so much.

Yes Harry would live with Sirius and Hermione and I would live somewhere close (maybe together, I've started to think these past months) and Professor Lupin would get a job somewhere around London too, once we got Umbridge's werewolf legislation repealed.  And Harry would find some girl that could take care of him – by which I mean somebody with more sense than Cho who understands how wonderful and fragile he is and would love him and snog him breathless every time he starts getting angry or blaming himself for all the pain in the world.  I wouldn't even mind if Ginny wanted to do that – and usually I find myself going explosive at the thought of any bloke getting within kissing distance of my little sister.  And we would all be happy and loved and whole.

But it will never happen now.  Sirius is dead and Harry is hurting and there's not anything I can do. I bite my lip to keep from screaming and let my tears roll down to mingle with Harry's.

I hear something.  I soft swishing, like someone moving a curtain.  Or someone walking in heavy robes.  I look up, expecting to see Hermione or maybe McGonagall.  But it isn't either of them.

Dumbledore is standing on the far side of the room next to the windows.  The light plays off his heavy blue robes, striking sparks from the richly embroidered moons and stars that make him look like he is wearing a part of the night sky.  How did he get there?

I don't need a cloak to become invisible.  He said that once, in our third year.

He moves forward, his inevitable smile dimmed as if by weariness or sorrow.  "Hello Ron," he says softly, "are you feeling well?"

I don't trust my voice so I just shrug.

Dumbledore sits carefully on the other side of Harry's bed.  He stretches out his hand and gently runs his palm over my friend's hair, stroking down across my hand to caress softly down Harry's back.

"The potions Poppy gave him are not working.  I will have to tell her to increase the strength of the dosage."  His statement is factual, but he looks at me as if expecting a retort.

Harry moans and writhes slowly.  I tighten my embrace yet more and he burrows against my chest, his small frame trembling.

And then I am angry.  I feel a hot, burning rage boil up from the depths of my gut.  Heat engulfs my face and I know I am flushing brilliantly.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" My voice is a fierce hiss that would have done credit to one of Charlie's dragons.  "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?  WHAT'S WRONG WITH ALL OF YOU?"

So much for being a prefect.  

Dumbledore looks at me with an unreadable expression.

"HE'S A HERO!  DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT HE'S DONE FOR YOU?  DON'T YOU CARE?"  My voice betrays me and I half-sob out my accusation.

"Yes I care."  The old wizard's eyes are glittering, but with what I don't know half-blinded as I am by my own weeping.  "I care so much I feel like I will bleed to death from the caring."

"Bleeding!" I say spitefully, no longer caring what the consequences might be.  "What do you know about bleeding?  Umbridge made Harry cut his hand open again and again, did you know that?  Do you even care?"

"Yes I know.  I knew it at the time.  And yes I cared."  He fixes me with eyes that hold no twinkle at all.  "I still do.  Sometimes, my young lion, the worst pain of all is having to watch someone you love suffer, and not being able to help."

"I know that."  I begin to sob openly now.  What a sight!  Two teenagers bawling and an old man looking like he's swallowed wormwood.

"Yes Ron, I am sure you do."  He sighs and looks – old.

"He loved you.   He looked up to you more than anyone."  I am choking on my tears and don't care.  "Why didn't you help him?  Why do you make him go back to those awful people every year?  It hurts him."

He looks at me and I expect to get a stern reprimand.  At best I expect a cryptic dismissal.  

"Mr. Weasley," he says softly, "are you ever jealous of Harry?"

I'm so surprised I stop crying.  

What the bloody hell is he talking about?  The old man's gone mad at last.

"Answer me please."  Now his voice is stern, but strangely not angry.  He just wants an answer.

"Yes," I admit softly, "I'm jealous of him a lot."  I redouble my caressing of Harry's back, as if to reassure him even though he cannot hear us.

"Why?"  He reaches out and softly strokes Harry's hair.  I don't protest.

"Because he's so famous and wonderful."  There was a time last year when we didn't speak for the better part of a month because I was so envious.  "And everybody favors him – even my Mum and Dad.  I used to think you favored him too."

"And yet you are holding him now.  Why?"  His blue eyes are soft and kind.

"Because he's my friend." I'm really puzzled now.

"Just a friend?"  There is just a faint hint of a twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes.

"Well, no."  This is getting to be a really personal and uncomfortable conversation.  "He's my best friend."

"More than that, I think."  The twinkle is gathering strength now.

And I say again, fuck it.

"I love him."  The sobs come again at that.  "He's the most wonderful, sweetest, best boy I've ever known!  He's been so good to me!  Better than any of my brothers!  He's, well, he's Harry."

Dumbledore watches me with his eyes twinkling fiercely.  His hand leaves Harry's back and gently strokes my cheek.

"He holds a piece of your soul, doesn't he, my little griffin?"  His thumb softly swipes away the large tear making its way down my cheek.  "And you hold his.  And you both hold Miss Granger's and she holds his and yours."

"Yes."  What this has to do with my question I don't know.

"And if you love him so much, even as you are jealous of him, what do you think it feels like to love him without jealousy?"  His voice is soft and sad.

Is he talking about Sirius?  Or maybe Professor Lupin?  I look hard at the Headmaster's weary face.  Merlin, he means himself.

"Why didn't you help him?"  I'm angry again.  Harry senses it and stirs, moaning.  Without really thinking what I'm doing I press my lips against his scar in a comforting kiss.

"Because I love him so much that I hurt him.  I wanted to protect him so badly that I forgot his needs.  I was so very afraid that he would come to harm that I delivered him into the hands of his persecutors."

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" I hiss desperately.  

"I know you do not."  He is sad again.  He is sad and old and his eyes are dull.  "I don't know that I fully understand myself."

I just stare at him, stunned, as a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye and rolls down his cheek.

"I seem very powerful to you, don't I Ron?  I look powerful and wise and mysterious.  But I am only a man.  I am an old man who was very afraid and made so many mistakes."

He looks at Harry then.  He looks at Harry and closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath.  

"I made so many mistakes, Ron.  And I don't know if he will forgive me.  Do you?"

He regards me calmly but I have a feeling, just a feeling, that his calm is masking desperation.  He is truly afraid, and truly wants to know what I have to say.

"I don't know."  I feel like I'm failing him for some reason.  But I don't know what else to say.

Dumbledore rests his hand on my shoulder and smiles softly.  Then he leans forward and, I can't believe it, kisses me softly on my forehead much as I have just kissed Harry.

"Love him my little griffin." His voice is suddenly hard and fierce.  "Love him and protect him and shield him.  Shield him even from me.  And make sure that you never, ever do anything to lose that.  Because he loves you, too.  He loves you more than his own breath.  And that is a very great gift – one that I will envy you!  I will envy you his love more than you can possibly imagine."

"Don't desert him," I say suddenly, "he needs you.  We all need you."

Dumbledore smiles then.  He smiles and his eyes twinkle with there old light.  "I am not going to desert him or you, Ron.  I could not do that any more than I could desert my own heart.  I will be there for him, and for you, in all the trials to come.  And they are coming, you know."

"I know," I say softly.  "Because – HE – is back."

Dumbledore nods.

"That will be all right." I say it as strongly as I can, and I find myself, despite everything, believing it.  "Harry will defeat him.  He's Harry, after all."

The Headmaster laughs at that, softly.  But there is no mockery in his chuckle, only warmth.  "He is indeed."

The old wizard leans forward again, and this time kisses both Harry and me.  

"I will leave you to your duties, Mr. Weasley, now that Harry is well taken care of."  He rises from the bed and circles to reach the door.  On his way through, he stops and looks back.  "And remember what I have said."

I nod to him and he leaves, smiling.

Harry groans as if protesting a loss.  I stroke his back and whisper soft comforting words.  But I have begun to cry again.  I cry for Harry.  I cry for Hermione and me.  I cry for my family.

And for the first time in my life, I cry for the greatest wizard in the world.  I cry for Albus Dumbledore, who envies me the love of the sweet, wonderful boy sobbing in my arms.  The greatest wizard in the world is jealous of me, and I cry for him anyway.

And later, much later, after Harry is finally sleeping peacefully and Hermione has come to help me comfort him, I realize something that almost makes my heart stop.  Albus Dumbledore is jealous of me.

But when I look down at Harry, as I stand there holding Hermione's hand and staring down a my wonderful friend, I understand that that isn't very surprising, after all.

A/N: For more details about what Albus means when he refers to his knowledge of Harry and Umbridge, see my fic "Millstone."  As always, I remind everyone that all my fics so far are deeply related, with themes weaving back and forth among them.  In particular fans of this story might want to see my fic "Here be Monsters" for more insight on some events and references.


	11. Remember My Last

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer:  Main characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Eleven: Remember My Last

I don't want to go to sleep tonight. _He_ will be there.  And I can't stand to face him.

We picked up the boy at King's Cross today.  Several of _them_ were waiting for us.  They told us that if they didn't approve of how the boy was being treated we would have them to answer to.

Vernon is about to work himself into a stroke.  He's been purple ever since the station.  When we got home I thought he would actually hit the boy.  Honestly, as much as I love Vernon, he can be so incredibly stupid sometimes.  Does he really think those _people_ would sit still for that?  Does he really think he can put his hands on the boy and get away with it?  He tried it last summer and I almost died of fear.  Luckily all he got was a shock.__

I had to make sure I stayed between them all night.  And Dudley was swelling like some sort of poisonous reptile.  I have him to worry about as well.  He hasn't forgiven the boy for what happened last summer.  Why should he after all?  And he doesn't realize, my dear Dudley, that he is too old now – too old for those people to overlook him and excuse his behavior as childish naughtiness.

I don't know how to explain the truth to Vernon and Dudley.  I don't know how to tell them without revealing far, far too much.

You see, the ones at the station aren't the ones we need to be afraid of.  None of them, not even the one with that terrible, awful eye, hold a candle to the ones we really should fear.  None of them even approach the horror of the Dark One and the Old Man.

Vernon might be able to understand the Dark One, if I could get him to calm down long enough.  After all, he understood about the boy's murderous godfather well enough, and the Dark One is just like that only written much larger.  If I could get Vernon to quit huffing and muttering and pacing about, I might be able to make him understand about the Dark One – or at least understand well enough.

But I can't explain about the Old Man.  I can't let Vernon know the truth about that.

The boy has gone upstairs.  Vernon is sputtering something about putting him back in the closet and I am trying to get him to _shut up_ before it's too late.  Dudley is just pouting and cracking his knuckles.  How am I ever going to head off that disaster?

Why did they ever bring the boy here?  They had no right to bring him here!  They had no right to persecute me again; to pull me back into their world after I had escaped!  They had no right to start it all again!

But then they care nothing for rights – not even the rights of there own kind.  Why should they worry about me?

I wonder if they are born that way?  Lily certainly was.  From the time she came out of the womb, she was utterly convinced that the world revolved around her.  

Not that she was mean or cruel or arrogant.  She was kind and sweet, in fact.  But she was also utterly and totally oblivious to the idea that other people were entitled to their boundaries.  I remember once, long before the letter came, she decided to "help" me with a cooking project.  She remixed the entire recipe without even asking me if I _wanted_ help.  And it was good.  It was very good.  She was five years younger than I was, and yet she completed the task with more style than I could ever have mustered.

When I got angry about it my parents, as was typical, chastised me for my lack of gratitude.  After all, did I want my cooking to turn out badly?  

Or I should say Daddy chastised me.  Mum was so under his sway she might as well have not existed, for all practical purposes.  Daddy had a way of doing that to people.  He was so intelligent, so rational, so _reasonable_, that other people just lost all will to oppose him.  And his eyes were the worst.  They were always filled with kindness and pity.  To be corrected by him was an experience from Hell itself, because his voice was so calm, so controlled, and his eyes so kind that you inevitably found yourself filled with guilt and humiliation to have done something so stupid, so downright _evil_, as to oppose him.  That was doubtless the reason he was always winning awards from the various schools at which he worked.  Daddy was a teacher of English and Literature at a number of rather good institutions over the years, and he was renowned for his ability to control students.

The answer, by the way, was that yes I did want my cooking to turn out poorly.  Because it would have been _my_ cooking, not hers.  But when I said that, Daddy just looked at me with those kind eyes and asked very calmly and rationally if I knew how immature I sounded.  And so, as usual, I ended up feeling stupid as well as ungrateful.

It was worse when she went off to that school, of course.  As her powers waxed her desire to "help" grew exponentially.  For instance there was the time she re-arranged my entire rock garden with a flick of her wand.  The rocks were ugly, it was true.  They were ugly and arranged in ragged, crooked patterns.  But they were mine.  I had spent hours on end in the heat placing them.  And if the garden was unattractive it was nevertheless my own accomplishment.

And then she came home on holiday, took one look at the rock garden, and said "I can help you with that dear."  With one flick of her hand and few Latin phrases everything I had done – all the work and pain, was made worthless.  Oh, the garden looked much better, arranged as they now were in sweeping elegant curves and balanced geometries. And my parents gleefully acknowledged that fact.  And of course they acted like I should be eternally grateful to Lily for lending a hand – or a wand as the case may be.  But not once did any of them ever ask what right Lily had to interfere.  Never once did anyone but me bother to wonder why she thought she had the privilege of "helping" even when her aid had not been requested.

After she married Potter I could barely stand to be in their presence.  He didn't mind smirking, I can tell you that much.  Every time Lily would embarass me in that sweet way of hers – that is every time she would exclaim over something I had done or was wearing or was planning and rush to help with her damnable powers – he would grin at me in amusement, his arms folded and his eyes dancing with contempt.  He might have been handsome and brave and charming, but in his opinion the whole world suffered from the abominable disadvantage of not being James Potter.  He was willing to overlook that disadvantage, but only if the rest of us would be so tasteful as to accept his pity.  Daddy was the only one who could wipe the smirk off his face, and even the Devil himself would have been hard put to sneer in my father's presence.

After I married Vernon and became pregnant I thought I had actually achieved something that she couldn't help with for once.  But Lily could not be defeated.  Since she could not interfere with my pregnancy, she arranged one of her own.  

She didn't do it deliberately of course.  But nevertheless I almost accused her of it.  For the first time in more than twenty years I had something that was unique to me, something that Lily didn't share in and couldn't meddle with.  Then she called me (she knew how to use a phone, of course, even if James wouldn't be caught dead near one) and announced in ecstatic tones that not only was she pregnant but our babies would be almost exactly the same age.  I wanted to strangle myself with the phone cord.

The worst of it was how she kept prattling on about what she and James would do for MY child.  She kept on and on about how they would "help" Vernon and me (James being wealthy) and how they could arrange for all sorts of advantages for my baby and how if the child turned out to be like her (and wouldn't that be WONDERFUL she kept saying) that they would take my baby "under their wing" and see to all its needs – because after all her child was practically guaranteed to be like _them _(I know about squibs and I also know they are rare) and having two magical children around would be no particular trouble.  Finally I told her to sod off and, with a feeling of immense relief, closed that chapter of my life forever.

Or so I thought.

Then she and James went and got themselves killed fighting the Dark One and the boy showed up on MY doorstep.  What's worse, he showed up with a long letter explaining how important he was and how it was critical that he be treated well.  It also went into detail about the type of protections he would need, and how by living with us he would have those protections because of an "ancient magic."

But the worst of it was that _they_ obviously thought I would be glad to take in the child.  After all, hadn't Lily been a wonderful sister?  Hadn't she helped me so much over the years?  Didn't I feel gratitude towards her and Potter for ... oh for being wonderful?

I had never been so angry and insulted in my entire life as the night the boy showed up with that letter tucked in the basket.  After twenty years I had managed to extricate myself from Lily's spiderweb of sisterly concern and conceit, and now they were dragging me back in.  They had no _right_!

I looked at the child with pure loathing.  I had never felt such dislike for any living thing in my life.  I almost called the authorities and turned the disgusting thing over to them that very night.

But there was a problem you see.  Lily really _was_ sweet and kind and meant well.  She had managed to make my life utterly miserable, but with all the best intentions.  Damn it, she _was_ wonderful.  And despite everything I had loved her, at least long ago.

And the child had her eyes.  Her eyes which, by the way, were also Daddy's eyes.

So I took Harry Potter into the house and sealed the charm (never telling Vernon about that part of it).  He would grow up to be like Lily, of course.  I knew in my heart he would.  But I took him in anyway.

And for a while it looked like everything might actually be all right.  Vernon was angry and insulted at first, but the fact is that as much as I love him he hasn't got the strongest mind or the stiffest backbone, and I browbeat him into sullen acceptance rather easily.  Although I know the boy doesn't remember it – I almost don't remember it – the first two or three years weren't so bad.  I did not love the child.  I still resented him deep in my heart.  But the active dislike I felt at first went away.  We heard no more from the world of magic, and I began to think that, over time, I was actually becoming rather fond of the boy.  And to be honest, I think I _could_ have been fond of him.  I could even have come to accept him having those freaky powers.  Yes, I might have, if not loved, at least been on peaceful terms with a wizard nephew.  If only he had continued to look as much like Lily as he did that night.

But of course he turned out to look exactly like James.  And that was the last, the most unforgivable insult.  I had taken in Lily's child, and ended up with a reincarnation of that arrogant, insufferable bastard.

And so it all came to naught.  My dislike returned with full force, he went into the closet, and I went into denial about what was going to happen come his eleventh birthday.  It was wrong.  I knew in my heart it was wrong.  But every time I looked at him any regret I had was blown right out of my mind by James' hateful face looking back at me.

It also didn't help that Potter had Daddy's eyes.  Every time my heart told me what I was doing was wrong, I had only to look at Potter's face to hear what Daddy would say to me about this situation.  He would doubtless look at me with those pity- filled eyes and ask me if I _really_ thought I was acting like an adult.

Then the letter came.  Vernon was determined to prevent him from going to Hogwarts.  I knew it was futile, of course, but I didn't have the heart to argue.  The sight of the letter brought back too much.

And so Harry Potter went to Hogwarts.  The day we left him at the station the first time we laughed as we drove away.  He seemed so ridiculous standing there.  But I knew it wasn't ridiculous.  I knew he would find his way to the school.  I think I knew even then that things were about to change.

It was on Christmas night of Harry's first year that I first met the Old Man.  And that's when my I truly began to understand what a dangerous line I walked.

We had had a very busy day.  Vernon and Dudley were bursting with happiness to be able to celebrate without the boy around.  And I was relieved to be rid of him as well.  An unwanted shadow had been lifted from our lives and would not return for several months yet.  I fell asleep feeling happy and content.

"Petunia Dursley."  I woke with a start to find myself in a very different place than my bedroom.  Wherever it was it was dark and cold.  I had the sense of a tall ceiling and stone walls in the darkness.  As soft sphere of light shone in the middle of the chamber, where the Old Man sat in a large chair, fingering a thick, leather bound book.  He looked at me mildly.  "You are Petunia Dursley, are you not?"

He rose and I see he is dressed in wizard robes.  He is wearing half-moon spectacles, and he looks over them at me with an expression like an owl sizing up a mouse for its lunch.

"You are a wizard."  My voice was shaky.  I wanted to believe this is only a dream.  But he was stunningly real.

"Yes, I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The school the boy went to.  "Then you already know who I am."  In my dealings with James Potter, I generally found it best to be aggressive.

Dumbledore did not deny my accusation.  He put his book on a shadow-shrouded table and took a few steps toward me.  His expression conveyed sympathy, concern, and intelligence.  "I am have been anxious to speak with you Mrs. Dursley.  I am worried about the environment Harry Potter experiences in his home life."

I let myself sneer.  "Why, because we handled that _thing_ you left with us a little roughly?  Does he have some dents?"

"Oh, I am well aware of how you have handled Harry," he said quietly.  "I was watching."

_I'm not surprised._

His expression had changed.  There was still concern there, but also a stern hardness rising from the kind demeanor like a submarine surfacing from the deep ocean.  "I know this has been hard on you, Petunia."

"Do you now!  Do you indeed!"  I wanted to laugh but my throat felt dry.

"Yes it has been very difficult for you indeed," those awful blue eyes were filled with understanding and – pity?  "But do you really think it is proper to punish a child for what happened to you so long ago?  Harry was not even born when you lived with Lily."

_Of course it isn't proper.  Thank you for reminding me.  Wicked Petunia!  Bad Petunia!_

"What business is it of yours?"  I snarled at him, refusing to be put off or intimidated.  Or at least I tried to refuse.

"A Headmaster must look out for his students' welfare.  And Harry is a special case."  He sat again and folded his hands, but he kept me transfixed with his gaze.

"So your letter said.  Well, you don't seem to have been very concerned these past ten years!"

Something passed over his face then – regret, grief, shame?  "I have felt it necessary to remain in the background of Harry's life, for his own protection."

"And so I would bear the burden of raising him, no doubt!"

"In a way you are right, Petunia," he said in a low voice.  "The magic that protects him relies on you allowing him to stay willingly and without undue coercion."

"In that case," I half yelled, "leave me alone!  I have taken the boy in willingly.  I will raise him as _I _see fit!"

"Why did you take him in Petunia?"  His voice was sad, so very sad.

I just stared at him.  Why did I?

Because damn it all, he was Lily's child and, even though I hate the sight of him, she was my sister and I can't bring myself to turn him out in cold blood to die.

But I said nothing.  After several minutes of silence, he heaved a heavy sigh.  "Very well Petunia.  We will speak again."

I awoke feeling anxious and fearful.  I tried to believe it is just a dream, but I knew better.

I saw that dreadful old man again four months later.  It was another dream, this time I was walking along the upstairs hallway.  He was standing in the door of Dudley's second bedroom, his eyes filled with sorrow.

"Why Petunia," he asked gently, "must Harry sleep in a closet while an entire bedroom is used for a junk closet?"

"Because Dudley is _my_ son, that's why!  He belongs here!  Potter is a freak you forced on us!"

He looked at me with those kind, cruel, gentle, judgmental eyes.  "Petunia, please listen to yourself."

I wanted to keep screaming, to order him out of my house, out of my _mind_.  But I did hear myself, whether I wanted to or not.  Petulant, vicious, petty and unreasonable described me.  All of the things everyone said I was toward Lily.

The next day I began working on Vernon to offer the boy the bedroom.  He had developed a vicious dislike for Potter, and it took several weeks.  But early in the summer I had him.

By then I had also realized something about Dumbledore – he was just like my father.  Oh, there were plenty of physical differences.  Dumbledore was tall where Daddy was round, the wizard's eyes were blue and my father's were emerald green.  Where Dumbledore's voice was deep and mellow, Daddy's was squeeky and wheezing from the cigarettes he smoked constantly.  But beyond that they were exactly the same.  Two male schoolteachers with a frightening knack for domination – such a powerful knack in fact that to be around them too long would mean a profound destruction of self.

Daddy was better at it though.  I am sure the wizards would be shocked to hear me say that.  But it is true.  Dumbledore had the advantage of his props – his robes and his wand and his spectacles.  Daddy could dominate you every bit as thoroughly as Dumbledore, and he never carried a wand and rarely wore anything more elegant that faded cardigans or casual jacket and tie combinations.

When I realized whom Dumbledore reminded me of my hatred for Potter increased markedly.  When Vernon decided to bar his windows and lock him in his room I rejoiced, even though I knew in my heart it was a dreadful mistake.  The night Potter escaped I began to wait.

Sure enough, about four weeks later, I suppose the very night Potter returned to that wretched school, Dumbledore visited my dreams again.  We were in the dark space again, but the door to Potter's room stood in the middle of the floor like some stage prop.  The wizard looked at the many locks and bolts, then looked at me sadly.  "Do you really think that was necessary Petunia?  Do you really think that was right?"

Once again I decided to try an attack.  "How old are you?"

I expected that such a non sequitur would surprise him, but instead he just looked at me again, this time with a shine in his eyes that I could not classify completely as either humor or anger.  "I am 142 this year.  Thriving middle age!"

I felt a stab of deep fear at that news, but I pushed it aside.  "Where is this place?"

"Why Petunia, this is your mind!  Specifically the part of your mind where your higher emotions and instincts dwell."  He gestured about and smiled.

"But it is empty!"  It was also cold.

"Yes."  His eyes filled with more pity than I had ever seen.

I felt bile rise in my throat along with – sadness.  I suddenly felt sad and tired and defeated.

"We will get rid of the locks."

"And the bars Petunia.  If I try to send an owl to Harry next summer and the windows are barred, I will be _most_ annoyed."  His voice was still gentle, but his expression had suddenly hardened – hardened into planes of cold determination.

I knew better than to argue with someone who was wearing a look like that.  It was exactly the expression Daddy used to have when he was set on something.

And so the years progressed, with Dumbledore dropping into my dreams to pour guilt on me whenever he disapproved of something – which was always.  Daddy and Lily, Dumbledore and Harry, my life had come in a full, cruel circle.

But now there was yet another reason to hate Potter – perhaps the worst reason of all.  And it all hangs on that simple answer the old man gave.  _142.  _Lily had told me of wizards living into centuries, but I had never believed her.  

From then on whenever Vernon started to rant and rave about Potter, I would look at him and feel like a sword of ice had been run through my heart.  He did not know the worst, not the true horror of it.  He did not realize that one day he would be old and decrepit – a wheezing mass of flesh enclosing a bad heart and failing lungs, me clinging to one hand with dear Dudley standing at my side, balding and wrinkled.  And when the boy comes to gloat over him he may well look much the same as he does now.

Even worse will come a day when Dudley is an ancient wreck, dying in some hospital with Mummy and Daddy long gone.  And when Potter comes to enjoy his triumph I bet everyone will think he's Dudley's grandson.

Or maybe it works another way.  Maybe Potter will age like we do, but at some point he'll just stop, while we continue on to dust.  

In any case, I don't think the boy has thought of it yet.  That is bitter irony for you.  I look into his eyes, filled with helpless rage toward me and Vernon and Dudley, and realize he doesn't know.  He doesn't know that he is going to get a good nine generations of gloating victories.

Thus it was that I was filled with deep hatred for Potter when he returned home from his fourth year.  And thus it was that when I met Dumbledore in my dreams the night Potter returned I spat at him "I hate you all."

For once his eyes were not twinkling.  For once he looked at me sternly and without mercy.  "Harry is wounded now Petunia.  He is wounded and alone and we must leave him with you for safety.  I have warned you many times.  This is my last."

"Or you will do _what_?"  My heart was pounding and I could only think of hate and anger and injustice.  "If I put Potter out, he will die!"

"So he will, and I cannot force you to keep him."  His expression did not soften.

"So I protect Potter!  What will you do if we handle your precious boy a little roughly?"  I was spitting with hatred.

"I will do nothing.  Lily might have something to say, however."  His face was completely devoid of mercy or pity.

"Lily!  She is dead!"  I found myself looking around, just to be sure.

"You will be as well, one day."  He spoke softly and earnestly.  "Not by my hand, but one day it will come.  And death is a most permanent condition Petunia.  Whatever Lily and James have to say or do, they will have all eternity."

"I am too old to be frightened by fairy tales!  Honestly, who these days believes in ghosts and divine vengeance?"  I was filled with contempt for such childish mind games.

"Who these days believes in wizards and witches?"  His smile was slow and terrible.

And then I was more afraid than I had ever been.  What if he is right?  What if Lily and James have been watching, just as he has watched?

What if they are waiting?

I could not get that thought out of my head all summer.  What if they are waiting?  

Even worse, what if Daddy is waiting?

I only saw my father genuinely raging once.  I was sixteen and Lily was eleven.  She had just got her letter from that school.  She and I and Mum were trying to get her packed and I was seething with anger and jealousy.  Lily said something – I don't remember what it was – and we began to argue.  Finally I pushed her.  The silly thing caught her feet in that ridiculous robe she was wearing (an adult witch had come by a few days before to take her shopping for school things) and down she went, banging her head against the bed rail.  She started wailing then, more frightened than hurt.  I was shocked and ashamed but I never had a chance to say anything.  As luck would have it, Daddy had entered the house and was just in time to see me push Lily.

There is something terrible about hearing shouts from a normally quiet person.  It is like the laws of nature have been repealed briefly.  My father began to shout.  He was a freethinker, and we never had much to do with church, but I knew what he sounded like.  He sounded like an angry God.

My mother tried to calm him down.  It was the first and last time I can ever remember her taking my side.  Even Lily was stunned by his rage and tried to protest.  But he sent them both out of the room.

And then he shouted.  He shouted for most of an hour.  And the things he said...

Let's just say when he died, two years before Lily and I both became pregnant, I did not attend the funeral.

I had thought never to hear that voice again.  But I did.  I heard it from a smoking red envelope the night the Dementors came and almost took my Dudley.  The night I heard that the Dark One had returned.

_Remember my last, Petunia_.

The voice of an angry God.  The voice telling me that life is short, and that vengeance may be waiting.  The voice of wizard and father and conscience and scourge all combined in one.

And now the boy is back.  He is back and I think that he is hurt even worse than before.  I can see it in his expression.  I can tell by the way his friends watched him as we walked away.

The Old Man will be waiting for me.  He will be there when I dream.  If not tonight, then soon.  Soon he will come.

I lie in the darkness of my house and feel the seconds slipping away.  Each tick of the clock, each breath brings me closer to the Old Man.

Brings me closer to death.

Brings me closer to Lily.

Brings me closer to Daddy.

Brings me closer to Hell.


	12. Until the Stars Burn Out

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer-Main characters and setting owned by J.K. Rowling

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Twelve: Until the Stars Burn Out

Whiteness.  Everything is whiteness.  I cannot tolerate whiteness.  It is too bright, too harsh.  Pinks and pastel blues are so much better, so much more decent.  I close my eyes to shut out the blazing purity of the white.

That is a mistake.  No sooner are my eyes closed than I see the fire, the fire in the clearing.  I struggle against the ropes binding me to the tree, but they are much too tight.

_Thwop._  An arrow embeds itself in the tree next to my cheek.  _Thwop, thwop, thwop.  _Three more arrows outline my head.  I am frozen with fear.  In a flurry of hooves one of the centaurs gallops forward, bearing a spear with a gleaming head.  Drawing back his arm he hurls it at my abdomen.  I screw my eyes shut in the vision and prepare for the death blow, only to feel cold metal between my thighs as the spear neatly passes between my slightly spread legs.  The cold is negated by a gush of warmth as my bladder lets go.  All around I hear the roaring laughter of the centaurs as the gallop about the tree, shouting comments that would make a giant blush.

I open my eyes in the waking world only to be met with the whiteness again.  Such is my torture.  Eyes open all I can see is whiteness and ugliness.  Eyes closed I see horror and pain.

"You have a visitor, Mrs. Umbridge."  I look up at the speaker in surprise.  It is a young nurse with a cheerful smile.  How can she remain cheerful in this place?  I do not understand.  Then again I don't want to understand the workings of this place, this house of indecency and suffering and disease.  St. Mungo's may be necessary, but it is a foul necessity on which I do not want my mind to dwell.

I turn to where she is pointing, fully expecting to see Cornelius Fudge.  He has not communicated with me since before I left Hogwarts.  Since before I was _chased_ from Hogwarts by that unspeakable poltergeist.  I understand that matters at the Ministry have been chaotic since the events of You-Know-Who's return, especially as the Minister is bereft of the aid and advice of his Senior Secretary.  Still, he could spare a few minutes to comfort me in my hour of need, especially after the services I rendered him with regard to Dumbledore and Potter.  I particularly want to see about getting moved to a private room befitting my station.  Here I have to put up with nuisances like that Lockheart fellow who is constantly trying to give me his autograph.

But the tall figure coming warily down the aisle between the rows of beds cannot be Cornelius.  As he gets nearer I see a blaze of red hair above the spray of carnations he is carrying.  It is young Mr. Weasley, unless I am very badly mistaken.  Evidently Cornelius is having his Junior Secretary take care of his social calls.  _Or is it he wants to have no contact with me?_  A stab of concern lances through my stomach.  I have been a lifetime servant of the Ministry, and I am well acquainted with the lengths to which senior officials will go to find scapegoats.

Percy sees me and walks forward with an air of relief.  "Hello Madam Umbridge.  I trust you are feeling better!"  His cheer is obviously forced, a very bad sign.  He sets the flowers down on the table near my bed and pulls up a chair.  I note that he looks very tired and anxious.  But there is also something else.  When he looks at me directly I see a coldness in his eye I have not seen there before.  But he looks away quickly.  Perhaps I imagined it.

"I am getting well rapidly, thank you," I reply.  Unfortunately at that moment one of the healers two beds down taps the nub of his quill rhythmically against his clipboard.  I start frantically, automatically scanning about for signs of danger.

"Madam Umbridge!" Percy puts his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me back down into the bed, "it is all right.  You are quite safe here!"

"Yes, yes," I say, feeling myself blush with intense embarassment, "thank you Mr. Weasley."

"The Minister sends his good wishes.  He regrets he could not come himself but recent events have caused many problems at the Ministry."  Percy is still not looking at me directly.  I find that very odd, but I am grateful he has come to this topic so quickly.  Here on the mental ward we receive little in the way of detailed news – they think it excites us too much.

"What is happening Mr. Weasley?"  I lie back against my pillows and smile my sweetest smile.  "I am sure troublemakers of all kinds have come out of the woodwork."

"Oh yes.  There are several petitions of no confidence circulating.  We are confident they will come to nothing."  He sounds like a man in denial.  I feel alarm building once again.

"Centered on Dumbledore and Hogwarts, I suppose?"

"Actually no.  But now that you mention it, I would like to talk to you about your time at Hogwarts.  What precisely happened in the woods?"

"Have you found Dumbledore's weapon yet?" I ask excitedly.

"No.  We are quite sure that was simply a ruse on Hermione Granger's part."

"But there MUST be a weapon, I..."

"Madam Umbridge," Percy says with unaccustomed gravity, "the centaurs please."

_fire arrows spears ropes fire pain shame fire arrows_

"They took my wand and tied me to a tree and had...sport with me.  I believe that is all in the statement I made."

"Yes, it is in the statement.  But you have not talked very much about how you got away from the centaurs."

I sigh.  I was afraid we would come to this.  "Dumbledore made some kind of deal with them."

"A deal?  What kind of deal?"  He leans forward.

"I really don't know.  At one point I passed out.  When I came to he was there, talking with them.  They talked for a very long time.  Then he came over to me and they untied me and he took me out."

"That was all?  He said nothing to you?"

"Well, yes he did."

"What did he say?"

"I don't remember."

"Are you sure about that?"  His voice has a tone of mockery that I find most offensive.

"I think I know what I can and cannot remember, Mr. Weasley!"

"I wonder about that, Madam Umbridge."  He looks around the ward with a slow smile, the obvious implication being that anyone on a mental ward might well not have the most reliable or constant memory.

"I assure you that I am no Harry Potter, Mr. Weasley!" I hiss.

He coughs.  "Madam Umbridge, much has changed in the last few days.  I must warn you that casting aspersions on Harry Potter's sanity or truthfulness will win you no friends in the Wizarding World at the moment."

"So the unstable brat is a hero again?" I ask in disbelief.

"It would seem so," he informs me in a dry tone.  "What's more the Ministry is being vilified in the press for not believing him a year ago."

"Believing him!  We were supposed to induce a public panic on the word of a dangerous, attention-seeking child?"  I remember Potter's defiance, his flouting of authority despite all my efforts to teach him better.  Rage courses through my veins.

"I happen to agree with you, Madam Umbridge.  But the fact remains that Mr. Potter has been proven correct.  You-Know-Who has indeed returned."

"But surely that is all the more reason to emphasize responsibility and obedience to authority!  Behavior like Potter's can't go unpunished.  Telling lies..."

"But he did not tell lies, Madam Umbridge."

"It doesn't matter!  He would, I have no doubt, if it suited his purpose!  Responsibility and obedience, that is what we need!  That is what I tried to introduce at Hogwarts!"

"Yes, and there are many questions about your tenure at Hogwarts arising as well."  Percy looks at me for once, and his eyes are indeed cold.

"Questions?  What kind of questions?"

"Well, first of all, your choice of members for your Inquisitorial Squad.  Many of their parents have been arrested as deatheaters."

"By what evidence?"  I feel real fear flooding my intestines.  This can't be happening!

"Harry Potter's."

"There you see!  Potter again!"

"Madam Umbridge, as I have said, open hostility towards Harry Potter is not a wise policy at the moment."

"But Cornelius was good friends with Lucius Malfoy!" I cry before I can stop myself.

"Acceptance of political and charitable contributions does not imply knowledge or approval of illegal activity."  Percy looks fiercely prim, if such a thing is possible.

"What else?" I ask softly.

"There is the matter of a certain quill you used in detentions."

"Potter again?  Did he object to his delicate skin being scarred?"

"No.  Hermione Granger actually.  She and Minerva McGonagall have asked the Ministry to open an investigation."

McGonagall, I might have known!  Always undermining me, and forever supporting Potter and Dumbledore!

"So I have bad teaching methods, is that what they are saying?"

"No, they want you charged with assault."

I feel my throat constrict.  "Assault?  But that's ridiculous!"

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement evidently has other ideas.  Amelia Bones has accepted the petition for preliminary examination."

"Amelia!" I almost spit the name.  If it were not for Madam Bones' sentimental babbling I might have had Potter's goose thoroughly cooked last August.

"Madam Bones is most insistent that the letter of the law be followed in all cases involving members of the Ministry," Percy says with that fierce primness again.  "She and the other members of the Department are taking the allegations concerning your detentions very seriously."

"But, how can that be assault?"  It was only discipline, after all.  An attempt to teach a nasty little boy not to tell lies.

"They bled." Percy says flatly.  "Further Granger and McGonagall have brought up your near use of the Cruciatus Curse on Potter, and your admission to dispatching dementors to Potter's house last summer."

"But surely the Ministry will not agree to open an investigation.  I am the Senior Secretary to the Minister of Magic, after all."

"Actually, that would be my position," Percy says softly.

I gasp as if I've been kicked.

"Lastly you had ordered the whipping of a pair of young troublemakers.  That bids fair to create quite a public commotion once it gets out."

"Those two!"  I snort.  "They deserved it.  You have no idea what they had done."

"Oh I think I have an idea," he says softly.  His eyes are like ice.

And then I remember.  The Weasley twins are, of course, his younger brothers.

"I admit I went much to far then.  But as for almost using the Cruciatus, why whoever says that are a pack of liars."

"That would include another brother of mine and a sister," he replies with a voice like a hangman.

Damn him and his rabbit hutch of a family!

"So I'm to be put out in the cold?"

"Oh no, it gets very warm in Paraguay."

"Paraguay?"  Did I just hear correctly?

"Yes.  The Minister agrees that a public investigation would not be in the interest of good order and safety during this crisis.  He is also aware of your previous contributions to the Ministry.  Therefore he is willing to overlook your indiscretions at Hogwarts and offer you an important and honorable position as emissary to the Wizarding community of Paraguay."

"Paraguay?" I almost choke.  "Isn't that where those muggle Nazis went to hide?"

"I believe that might be the case, yes."

"I refuse to be humiliated in this manner!"  How dare Cornelius treat me this way!  After all I have done for him and the Wizarding community of Britain!

Weasley draws a rolled up parchment from an interior pocket of his robes and lays it on the table next to the carnations.  "I will leave this with you, Madam Umbridge.  The Minister says he will take no action for a few days.  Please feel free to contact us."

"You are playing a dangerous game Weasley!" I growl.  "You are no better than those brothers of yours!"

He looks at me for a long moment and then smiles.  But the smile is an expression of intense sorrow, not of joy.  Then he nods, spins on his heel, and strides off quickly.

How dare he!  That...

A nurse passes with a wheeled cart.  One of the wheels is loose and makes a clopping noise as it rotates.

_fire arrows pain pain fear fire pain death_

I find myself halfway to my feet, two nurses on either side attempting to prevent me from bolting.  "It's all right Madam Umbridge," one of them says with a weary, bored tone, "there are no centaurs here."

I should certainly hope not!  Gathering what little of my dignity remains, I recline once again and allow the nurse to arrange the sheets and blankets.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.  Paraguay!  Of all the insults!

I lied of course.  I remember very well what happened in the forest.  I cannot forget.  No I will not forget.

At some point during the centaurs' sport I passed out.  When I awoke I was still bound securely to the tree, with several of the disgusting mixed breeds surrounding me.  Several of them carried spears that they poked in my direction, jeering.  But most of them were gathered in the middle of the clearing where the lead stallion of the herd was deep in conversation with a tall, white haired figure.  Dumbledore!  So the centaurs figured into his plot somehow!  Perhaps they were guarding his weapon for him!

The conversation continued for quite a long time.  Centaurs would wander back and forth from the middle of the clearing to my tree, listening to the conversation for a while then taking a break to jab spears or shoot arrows in my direction.  After what felt like several hours the lead stallion nods and Dumbledore strides over to where I am bound.  The ring of centaurs parted for him respectfully.

"So Dumbledore," I said, steeling myself for death in the service of the Ministry, "you reveal your true intentions!  Who else do you have as allies?  Giants?  Mermen?"

"And werewolves," he said softly, smiling.

"I should have known!  You will destroy all that is decent and orderly and give us over to mixed breed filth!"

"What do you have against mixed breeds, as you call them, Madam Umbridge?" He tilted his head and looked at me with a puzzled expression.

"They are an affront to order!  To decency!  Safety requires order and obedience!  Decency has to be protected.  There is no place in respectable, orderly society for the likes of them!"

"You know, Madam Umbridge," he said with a soft sigh, "I know a family of muggles who think much the same way."

"Do not insult me by comparison with such as them!" I spit.

He just shook his head.  "The herd has agreed that killing you would do more harm than good.  They have agreed to allow me to deal with you."

"So, you are going to kill me, are you?  I would expect as much!  You have no place in decent society!  Filthy rebel!  Not you and not Granger and not Potter!"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Potter." He smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes.  "You seem to have had a particular feud with him these past few months, I must say."

"A feud?  No.  I just mistakenly believed I could teach him not to tell vicious lies.  I thought if I showed him that filthy liars had no place in decent society, that they achieve only pain and punishment, I could reform him.  But he is a hopeless, nasty, criminal child."

"I see," Dumbledore replied softly.

"You will find your punishment traitor!  And Potter will find his!"

"Harry has much to bear.  What you have done to him," he paused and closed his eyes, as if in pain, "will doubtless live in his nightmares for a very long time."

"No more than he deserves."  I felt great satisfaction in the righteousness of my cause.

Dumbledore opened his eyes and looked at me silently.  He suddenly seemed very, very old.  I had hurt him, somehow.  And I was glad.

"Why did you send the dementors after Harry this past summer?"

I try to shrug, but the ropes will not allow it.  "Somebody had to do something about him.  I thought that if he repelled them, we could charge him and break his wand – which we would have if not for that obnoxious squib."

"And if they gave him the kiss?" he asked softly.

 So much the better.  Now kill me old man, and get it over with."

"As I recently told an old student of mine, Dolores, death is far too good for you."  He raised his wand.

"If you believe you can obliviate me and get away with it, you should know that the Ministry is adept at detecting and breaking memory charms!"

"I am aware of that," he answered.  He pointed his wand at me and said "_Memoria!"_

Suddenly my awareness expanded.  Every detail, every shadow, every glimmer in the clearing seemed to burn into my mind.  Every sensation seemed to drill deep into my heart.

"Do not forget Dolores," Dumbledore said softly, "remember."  And then his voice hardened and grew terrible.  "REMEMBER DOLORES UMBRIDGE!  REMEMBER THIS PLACE UNTIL THE END OF DAYS!  FEEL YOUR FEAR UNTIL THE STARS BURN OUT!" 

And I have remembered.  And I have felt.  Every time I hear a rhythmic sound, I am back in the clearing again.  Every time I close my eyes, I see the fire again.  I can't even tell the physicians what he did.  Any attempt to speak of it transports me into the clearing, and as far as the physicians are concerned I am just having another "attack."

Clever, clever Dumbledore.  Who knew you could be so creatively cruel.

I know what I will gave to do of course.  I am going to have to go to him and grovel.  I have had to do that before in my career.  It will be humiliating, but I will do it.  The problem is that he might not accept it.  Why did I have to say those things about Potter?

I reach over and take the paper that Weasley left.  It is the decree appointing me emissary to Paraguay.  It just needs my signature as a sign of acceptance to be official.  For a moment I feel a wild urge to sign.  Maybe, just maybe, the ocean will protect me.

But then I pull myself together.  Distance makes no difference.  My torture comes from within.  I remember, and I will continue to remember.  I will remember until the stars burn out.

How long does it take for a star to burn out?  That is something a muggle would know.  I won't lower myself to scrounge for muggle knowledge.

But somehow I suspect it takes a very long time.  I suspect it takes a very long time indeed.


	13. Falling Angel

Author – Dzeytoun

Category – Angst/Drama

Rating – R

Disclaimer – Main characters and settings owned by JK Rowling

A/N:  Sorry it has taken so long to update.  I've been in the midst of a job transfer and a move from Ohio to Virginia, so things have been stressful to say the least.  I have been working on this chapter for a while.  I will now turn my full attention to the next chapter of  "Here be Monsters" because I know several of you are waiting on that one.

Please note the R rating for this chapter.  Be warned this deals with very serious and gritty issues, and is significantly darker and more "real-world" than the other chapters in this fic so far.  Also note that simply because Percy suspects certain things does not make them fact (I think it will be obvious what I mean as you read).

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Thirteen: Falling Angel

The muggle club is dark and loud; the blaring music subsumed into a throbbing base line that pounds against the tawdry walls so hard I am surprised they don't crack.  The dance floor is mostly empty, it being still early on a weeknight.  Two middle-aged couples are currently gyrating and twirling with surprising skill in a long-out-of-fashion style I believe the muggles call disco.  Mostly the patrons are like me – obviously middle class and isolated, young professionals attempting to ease the pain of disappointed dreams and harsh awakenings.  At least I think I am obviously middle class.  My muggle clothing has ceased to raise eyebrows here, but I am not sure whether that is due to my increasing familiarity with the fashion trends in muggle London or because I have become a familiar site the last few months.  In truth, very little seems to cause surprise in this place.  The bartenders and waitresses have the jaded look that everyone in this seedy neighborhood seems to wear.  The only show interest when you produce muggle cash to purchase one of the many illegal goods and services the club peddles on the side.  I have not yet sunk so low as to dip into the various pills and powders kept somewhere in the back of the establishment, but a few months ago, on the night I heard that my father was in the hospital and might not live, I did purchase the company of one of the bored prostitutes that inhabit the upper floors.  Despite her surprising skill, I felt physically sick after I returned to my flat.  That has not stopped me from making further purchases, albeit infrequently.

I suspect that is where I will end up tonight, come down to it.  I am well on my way to whiskey-induced oblivion, and I have more than enough cash stuffed in my pocket should I decide to add sex to the mix.  I have come to learn many things about the muggles in my months of frequenting this place – things my father might be appalled by, for all his muggle-loving ways.  I have glimpsed their talent for depravity and wickedness, a talent that makes the graspings of the Dark Lords look like the feeble selfishness of spoiled children.  I wizard is used to cleanliness and precision.  To forget is simply a matter of a pointed wand and an uttered word.  But for a muggle forgetfulness is an exercise in subtle arts, a weaving of desire, hatred, darkness, and love into a tapestry of shadow for the mind.  When I first came to this place I looked on its patrons with amusement.  Now I observe them with horror and fear.

But I still come here.  I don't think I can stop now.  The truth is I don't want to stop.  The fear I feel here oddly negates the terror I am beginning to sense in the rest of my life – particularly in the corridors of the Ministry.  I would never have dreamed I would find those hallways frightening.  But I am coming to dread the very thought of them.  The dawn increasingly seems like the face of a dementor, come to carry me into my own little Hell.  Besides, I like the club's name.  That was what first drew me in, that night when I went walking to escape the memory of Mum's face.  She had come to try and fix things up after the row I had with my father.  But it was a fool's errand, like so much else my family undertakes.  For once in my life I cut her off, refusing to let her use her skillful combination of intimidation and guilt to force a pained, fragile peace, like she had before.  Afterwards I walked and ached, part of me wanting desperately to apparate home, throw myself into my parents' arms and beg for their forgiveness and my old room back.  But that part was overpowered by the anger and bitter resentment I felt for her and my father and my brothers and most especially for the ones who had caused this rift to begin with – namely Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore.  And so I walked until I saw the gaudy glowing sign outside the club.  I stopped and stared and started to laugh.  I laughed so hard and so sharply it made my chest hurt. 

THE BURROW.

I take a sip of the muggle whiskey I have come to almost like and let my face twist into a smile.  Percy Weasley was back in his natural habitat – The Burrow.  Would my family be happy if they new?

Of course they wouldn't.  Mum would begin to weep like a sieve, and Dad would look at me with that expression he has taken to wearing the last couple of years, the one like an angry owl.  Penelope – my family doesn't know we aren't speaking anymore, do they? – would protest with irritated incomprehension.  It was her infuriating inability to understand my choices that caused us to drift apart.  Bill and Charlie might well blister me with their wrath.  Ginny – well, the old Ginny would cry along with Mum, but the newer one might just look at me with disgust and turn away.  The reaction of the twins I don't care to predict, but it would probably be annoying in the extreme.  And Ron – at the thought of my youngest brother I feel a tight burning in my chest and behind my eyes, and I look down lest anyone see that I am about to cry.

It always comes back to Ron.  So much in my life comes back to my darling little brother with his impish grin and adorable freckled face.  Sometimes at random moments of the day I will have a vision of him bent over a chessboard, his brow knit and his lips slightly pursed as he views the antics of the chess pieces.  I'll have a vision of him like that and for an instant my heart will contract with love so strong that I cannot breathe.

I don't suppose he knows, because it isn't the kind of thing brothers talk about, but I used to make up excuses to hold him.  When he was little I would pick him up because he was hurt or tired or frightened, or for no reason at all, and take him to my room.  I would sit on the bed and cuddle him to my chest, encouraging him to wrap his arms around my neck and bury his sweet face against my throat.  Then I would spend long happy minutes rocking and caressing and tickling him, savoring my reward of precious giggles and little wet butterfly kisses.

I close my eyes and I can feel him now, curled up against my chest like a kitten as my evil fingers dance over his little ribs, making him shiver with laughter.  His soft kisses grace my cheeks and I hear his breathless voice in my ear, "Love you Per-per."

"Love you too Ronniekins," I coo.  "Love you so much."

When I went to Hogwarts it was Ronniekins I missed most.  I would lay in my bed in the dormitory, my dreams of accomplishment and making Dad proud alternating with worry for my darling little brother, alone at home (in our family only having four people in the house constituted being alone) without his Per-per to comfort and soothe him.  As time passed I began to dream of the day, not so long off, when Ronniekins could come to Hogwarts.  As I excelled at my studies and looked to the glory of a prefect's badge, I thought of how wonderful it would be to have Ronniekins there in Gryffindor Tower (it never crossed my mind that a Weasley could be anywhere else) and under my sheltering wing.  The twins had each other and no need of my guidance or support.  But Ronniekins was different.  He was always the baby brother, the one living in all of our shadows.  Bill was the oldest, Charlie the strongest, I the smartest, and the twins – well they were the twins.  At Hogwarts Ron could find himself, his own identity, and his Per-per (we had left the baby name behind long ago, of course, but I still treasured it secretly) would be there to guide and support him.

I didn't count on him meeting damned Harry Potter on the train.

At first I actually thought it was a good thing.  My Ronniekins was the best friend of the Boy Who Lived, a distinction no other member of our family could hope to match.  When Potter was sorted into Gryffindor I, like the rest of my housemates, nearly burst with pride.  I had heard rumors that the Heads of House had been waging a quiet campaign, each trying to get Dumbledore to use his influence with the Sorting Hat to insure that Potter ended up with them.  I don't know if Dumbledore has any influence with the Hat.  At the time I certainly believed he did.  Back then I thought Albus Dumbledore capable of anything.  Some of the stories were so hilarious they had all of the prefects in stitches.  The Heads were going all out to influence the Headmaster and/or the Hat.  According to the tales Flitwick had been saying he was sure he could come up with charms to give the Hat a better singing voice (although I always thought it sang rather well, particularly for a piece of clothing).  Our own Head was supposed to have been frantically researching transfiguration spells to fix all the Hat's torn cloth and worn seams.  As the Hat had no use for any products from her greenhouses, Sprout had made it a point to grow Dumbledore's favorite vegetables and flowers all the previous year.  And Snape, direct as always, was loudly proclaiming what benefits the Boy Who Lived could gain from Slytherin – always somehow bringing up the subject in the Hat's vicinity – while plying the Headmaster with potions for everything from achy joints to foot odor.  I really didn't believe all that about Snape even then, but I certainly had seen both Flitwick and McGonagall haunting the library at odd hours, and Sprout's greenhouses were bursting with rainbow cabbage and jumping beans, both great favorites of Dumbledore.

My pride soon wore very thin, however.  It was all very well for Ronniekins to have friends, but he very soon started to carry things much to far.  For instance his loyalty to Potter earned him the undying enmity of Snape.  Now just being in Gryffindor is enough to make Snape dislike you, and I was under no illusions that Ronniekins would discover a hidden talent for potions.  In fact it is something of a rite of passage when a Gryffindor first year has his or her first points taken by Snape.  Still, the potions master had a special hatred for Potter, and by extension that included Ron.  The other Gryffindors, even the other prefects, were rather proud that Snape had such a dislike for Potter and Ron.  They regarded it as a mark of distinction that these two, soon joined by Hermione Granger, seemed to get under Snape's greasy hide in a way no other Gryffindor had ever managed.  But I was very worried.  I mean one had to learn to deal with Snape's vindictiveness, but to succeed you had to be _politic_ about these things.

Well, I was sure that Ron would find his ways to excel.  For one thing there was quidditch.  It's true I was never much of a player, but Charlie was fantastic and the twins lived for the game.  Ronniekins was sure to make a fine quidditch player; having been immersed in the sport all his life.  And as Harry Potter had never even been astride a broom before coming to Hogwarts, this was an area in which Ron could easily prove himself the master.

Or so I thought.  Potter ended up being the youngest seeker in a century.  And Ron – well Ron didn't even seem to be all that perturbed.  He was jealous of course, and he had every right to be.  But when I tried to gently suggest that maybe he was just a little too close to Harry Potter, that maybe he should be thinking of putting a little distance between the two of them so he could shine a little on his own, he just looked at me blankly with that adorable frown of his.

I let that go, as I really had no choice.  But then came Halloween and the troll.  That idiot Potter had actually gotten my brother involved in facing a full-grown mountain troll!  And to make things worse, McGonagall actually _gave_ them points.  When I tried to protest to McGonagall about Potter's recklessness she gave me her You-are-Overstepping-Your-Bounds look.  And Ron thought it was all "wicked."

Things settled down after that.  I had started to dislike the famous Mr. Potter quite a lot, but I kept my temper and calm.  Much as I might like to come down on him with the full weight of my prefectural authority, I had too much respect for the rules.  Besides, it would make Ronniekins mad and I couldn't stand the thought of him being angry with me.

Then came the day when I passed the hourglasses, glanced up to verify with pride that Gryffindor was still in the lead for the House Cup, and saw to my horror that we had lost 150 points in one night.  To make it worse, it was because of Potter and mischief he had dragged my Ronniekins into!  I stormed off to confront my wayward sibling immediately, determined to bring an end to this nonsense at once.  I pried him away from Potter, gave him a thorough lecture, then pulled him into a hug, sure that everything was clear at last.

Imagine my amazement when Ronniekins pushed, _pushed_, me away and told me coldly to quit being such a prat.  I just stood in the middle of the dormitory, my jaw hanging open as my darling little brother stormed away, giving me a look of utter disdain over his shoulder.

I take a gulp of the muggle whiskey and screw my eyes shut in pain.  Just thinking about that painful afternoon makes me feel like my heart is sliced open.  How could Ronniekins say something like that to me?!  How could he be so cold and hateful to his Per-per!?

I gulp the whiskey again, remembering the pain that came next, the pain of learning he how Ron had faced McGonagall's chess set, and sacrificed himself so that Potter might advance to his first meeting with the Dark Lord.  I went to Ron that night as he lay in the infirmary, his face pale with pain and exhaustion.  I went to him and gathered him in my arms, my heart so torn with pride and terror and anger that I thought I would not live to see the morning.  But I did see the sunrise, after a long night of holding and rocking my Ronniekins, crying softly while I planted loving kisses on his cheeks and forehead.  

At some point during those long, horrible hours I sensed someone else.  I looked up in surprise to see that the twins had arrived.  I braced myself for jokes and ribbing, but their faces were unusually solemn and their eyes clouded.  Fred began to rub Ronniekin's spine while George ran his strong hands over my shoulders.  "It's all right Percy," George whispered, his callused fingers gently rubbing away the tears still trickling down my face.  "Yeah, it's OK," Fred agreed, reaching over to stroke my cheek.  "Your Ronniekins is safe," Fred continued, "he's right here."  So we rested, the four of us crammed into a ridiculous pile on the bed, all of us desperate for reassurance and loving contact.  "Go to sleep," George said softly, "we'll watch him."  And so I pillowed my head against George's chest and let the weariness overtake me at last.

When the sunlight entered that terrible room I knew that I loved my family so fiercely that just thinking of them made my heart hurt like it was in a bath of flame.  And I hated Harry James Potter just as much.

I left Ron in the twins' surprisingly tender care, meaning to return to Gryffindor Tower and begin the first step in a determined campaign to separate my brother from Harry Potter for good and all.  As I walked through the Hospital Wing I saw none other than Albus Dumbledore sitting in a nearby chair and I felt a surge of hope.  Dumbledore had been my hero since before I came to Hogwarts the first time.  Tales of his power and wisdom were common in my house, and I had pestered Bill and Charlie nearly to death for stories about him.  One of the happiest days of my life came when I got my fifth year letter and found a prefect badge inside.  Dumbledore – wise, great, famous Dumbledore – considered _me_ worthy of authority.  It was all I could do not to tapdance through the Burrow.

Now I made a straight line for the Headmaster, thinking that I could begin by lodging a formal complaint against Potter for putting my brother in danger.  Dumbledore looked up as I approached and smiled gently.  He rose to place one hand on my shoulder and inquire about Ron.

"He is healing, Headmaster.  But it was a terrible trauma."

"Of course Percy," Dumbledore gives my right shoulder a squeeze, "I am so very sorry this happened while I was away.  If I had any idea what sort of schemes were in their heads, I never would have left them alone."

He meant what sort of scheme was in Potter's head, of course.  But I nod and smile gratefully.

"I looked in on Ron a couple of hours ago, while you were asleep.  Madam Pomfrey has great hopes that he will be able to leave the Hospital Wing shortly."  Dumbledore smiles again.  But for some reason I find his speech to be a little – distracted.  I notice that when he removes his hand from my shoulder he clasps his fingers together with an unconscious twisting motion, like he wants to wring his hands together but has suppressed the instinct.

"Thank you Headmaster.  I was wondering if I could speak to you about Harry Potter."

"About Harry?  What is it?"

"Well, his behavior this evening was reckless in the extreme..."

"For which I blame myself.  Had I not left the school at this critical juncture, none of this need have occurred."

"I do not presume to know of such possibilities Headmaster," although now that he mentioned it I was extremely perturbed that he had managed to absent himself during such a crisis, "but I think something MUST be done."

"I totally agree Mr. Weasley.  The matter cannot be left unaddressed."  He smiled and, as always when Dumbledore gave me a sign of approval, I felt warm comfort fold about me, quieting my anxiety.

"Rest assured, suitable points will be awarded, along with other honors."  Dumbledore smiled again, this time with a gleam of mischief in his eye.  "I would appreciate it, however, if you kept that fact private for the moment."

"Points, well I..." I was flabbergasted.  He was actually going to _reward_ Potter for nearly getting my brother killed.  "I won't ... say anything, Headmaster."  In fact I found myself speechless.

The giving of points turned out dramatically, I have to admit.  But it did seem rather, well, _impolitic_ of Dumbledore to so humiliate the Slytherins.  Many of their families are wealthy and influential.  It is true that they are also tainted by association with You-Know-Who, but practical matters of state often force one to lay aside the past and move on peacefully and efficiently.  That was one reason I was beginning to become ever more interested in political trends.  Cornelius Fudge seemed to possess a fine grasp of the requirements of governance and administration, whereas Dumbledore – well, from that day on I suppose I started to think of him as floating serenely on a cloud, always willing to shout down advice about moral absolutes but never willing to get his hands dirty with the actual work of administration.  After all, Dumbledore had turned down the Minister's post, which bespoke his disdain for the complexities of the real world.

I set my goals on using the summer to repair my relationship with Ron.  It went very smoothly at first.  After several afternoons of wizard chess (I lost badly, as usual), my brother had relaxed to the point that he had begun to confide in me about his first year.  True, it was mostly HARRY this and HARRY that, but at least we were talking.

Unfortunately Penelope and I began to experience the first signs of strain between us.  As Ron warmed up to me once again, I suddenly had a wonderful idea.  Once Penelope and I left Hogwarts and got married, we could have Ron come live with us!  If we wed right after graduating, Ron could come to us in the summer before his fourth year.  I planned to seek employment with the Ministry, and we could argue that it would do Ron a world of good to live in London, broadening his horizons and the like.  We could all, of course, spend holidays and other special occasions at the Burrow.  

Of course another reason I wanted Ron close by was to continue watching him and to try and make sure that nothing like his first year catastrophes happened again.  With only the three of us in the house – Penelope, Ron, and me – I would be able to explain myself and teach him useful knowledge and behavior without the noise and constant interference of the Burrow – not to mention Father jumping in to disagree every five minutes.

To my amazement Penelope proved distinctly cool to the idea.  In fact when I tried to explain my reasoning to her in detail she became distinctly snappish.  Her main objection was she wanted a home and family of her own, not to be an annex to the Weasley household.  I admit I was rather hurt by that, but held my temper and calmly reiterated my position.  She then said that she would like to have a period together as newlyweds, thank you very much, and having Ron around day and night might be inhibiting.  At this I pointed out that Ron would be gone most of the year, and that I was sure we could arrange for him to go on vacation or visit his friends if she felt the need for private time in the summer.  At this she gave a small hiss of disgust and walked out.  We patched things up three days later, but I think it was then, when we had our first quarrel about Ron, that I truly came to understand that I was surrounded by flobberworms.

Shortly after that who should show up at the Burrow but Harry Potter himself, brought from his relative's by Ron and the twins who, showing a shocking disregard for family well-being, flew Dad's Anglia over to Surrey.  Ginny developed a crush on him that summer, or at least revealed one.  Harry did not return her affections however, despite the fact that he did rescue her from the Chamber of Secrets.

Like all of my brothers, I regard Ginny as something special.  Being both the youngest and the only female means that she is a rarity and a treasure, and is treated as such.  In retrospect it was only her own good nature and Mum's common sense that kept her from being as spoiled as a Malfoy!  So when Harry evinced not interest in Ginny I was relieved, hurt, and angry all at once.  How dare he not want Ginny, even if he clearly was not worthy of her!

A deep suspicion settled in my stomach then.  I fought it though, I fought it a very long time.

I look up from my table to that several of the prostitutes have joined the dance floor.  Evidently it is a slow evening upstairs.  Kristen, the tall black woman whose company I have enjoyed in the past, waves and gives a thumbs up sign.  I just wave at her wearily.

No, Harry did not want Ginny.  Angry as I was I took comfort in that.  In the summer before my final year I received news I would be Head Boy.  Everything looked like it would be well – especially since we spent our vacation in Egypt away from Potter.

But I returned to find Hogwarts filled with Dementors.  When I asked Dumbledore he said they were here to protect the students.  Somehow, thought, I sensed there was one student especially they, or their masters at the Ministry, wished to protect.  Harry Potter had managed to ruin my year as Head Boy by bringing those foul things into Hogwarts.

I also noticed a change in Dumbledore.  Increasingly he began to be distracted and worried.  When he did speak, it was often in reference to Harry Potter.  Of course I was not privy to his conversations very often, but it seemed to me that the Headmaster was becoming increasingly engaged with the topic of the Boy Who Lived.  My respect for him plummeted.  He was supposed to be a superior being, an example and guide to prevent us from stumbling.  Instead he turned out just to be an old man with human flaws and frailties.  I could not believe I had idolized him for so many years.

It was in the year after my graduation that my dark, deep suspicions flowered.  In the Second Task, Harry had to rescue Ron from beneath the lake, thus revealing Ron to be the thing he would miss most.  I was judge for that, and awarded him full points.  He is, I must admit, incredibly brave and capable of great generosity.  But what I thought when I rushed up to Ron being pulled from the lake: relief that he was well, anger at Dumbledore for putting him in that situation even if the old man swore there was no danger, anger at Potter for putting him in that situation by loving him so much, all of these emotions whirled around inside me like a maelstrom.

Yes, I knew then that Potter loved my brother, and the suspicions in my heart grew even more bitter.  I remembered how they constantly talked and whispered together, to the point that they almost possessed their own language of code words and allusions.  I remembered how Ron would easily throw his arm around Harry's shoulders or vice-versa.  I remembered the looks of adoration my little brother sent Harry's way when Harry caught the golden snitch or humiliated Draco Malfoy or did any other of a hundred things Ron approved of.  I remember that they always sleep in the same bedroom.  Even when other rooms are available, the two of them _always_ share a bedroom.

After the tournament was over and I was waiting to discover my fate at the ministry, Mum asked me what was wrong.  She had noticed the dark glances I sent in Harry's direction, although being the self-absorbed git he is Harry himself had not.  I made up some sort of nonsense, I don't remember what.  After all, how do you tell your mother, that her youngest son is being buggered by a mentally unstable adolescent with a habit of getting into life threatening situations?  

Not that I mind Ron turning out to be a ... a pillow biter.  Not much anyway.  As long as he is discreet about it, there is no reason it should interfere with future prospects.  But POTTER?  I knew that I had to get Ron away from Potter's corrupting influence, some way.

Kristin comes over to the table and extends her hand.  Why not?  I have the cash, and this may be the only way to drive out the images now filling my mind – images of Ron giving his kisses and caresses to someone else.  So I take her hand and we walk slowly upstairs.  There is something new here tonight – a treat Kristin says.  It consists of a small bag of white powder, a mirror, and a small box filled with odds and ends including razor blades.

I hand over the money to Kristen, and she spends several minutes showing me how to inhale the powder – promising when I ask that this service is free and won't be deducted from my time.  I blink several times as a surge rockets through my body.  The only thing with which I can compare it is to think of a dementor then imagine feeling the exact opposite.  Energy and vitality crackle through my nerves.

Unfortunately my anger is magnified along with my joy.  I did tell Father about Harry Potter.  It was shortly after my promotion.  Potter had been prattling on and on with his ridiculous stories about dementors.  The family believed him, to my astonishment.  Oh, I had expected Ron and Ginny would believe him, and probably Mum, but I thought Dad too sensible for that and said so.  He coldly asked what was sensible about ignoring the warning.  When I pointed out that the Ministry had laid out a logical argument as to why Potter's story had to be false, he asked me even more coldly if it was logical that I be promoted to Junior Secretary right after the Crouch fiasco.

That was when we started shouting.  He sided with Potter and Dumbledore (I had come to believe along with the Minister that there had to be some ulterior motive on the Headmaster's part) saying that I was being a blind ingrate.  I in turn cataloged Potter's sins, culminating with the accusation about buggery.  My father proceeded to escort me to the door.

We have not had a real conversation since.

We almost succeeded!  We nearly had Potter twice!  Once about the use of underage magic and then the illegal club at Hogwarts.  But Dumbledore helped him slip through the net.

I finish disrobing and settle back naked as Kristen joins me on the bed.  I am glad of her warmth, because the memories that come now are the ones that I would most like to destroy.

I knew I had found my place in Fudge's office.  Here at last were people who understood reality – people who were truly brave instead of simpering behind platitudes and lion banners.  No talk there of choosing between "what is right and what is easy," but rather of choosing the greatest good or the least evil.  And there was no shyness in facing the gray areas of life that Dumbledore's little speeches so often ignored.

We determined at once to do something about Harry Potter and Dumbledore.  Potter's breaking the law gave us a perfect chance.  It is true that switching the time of his hearing without informing him was not exactly in keeping with the rules, but the dangerous miscreant had to be silenced!  The greatest good for the greatest number had to be attained.  Unfortunately, our attempt failed despite Potter's ridiculous story – well, it seemed ridiculous at the time.

When I heard that Ronniekins had been named prefect I almost burst with pride.  I immediately wrote him a letter, congratulating him and also advising him to cooperate fully with Dolores Umbridge.  It is true that I should have never called her a delightful woman.  But one must be diplomatic about these things!

I don't regret the episode where Dumbledore was suspended, either.  The rules were quite clear, despite the old fool's attempts to twist them around.  And Dumbledore and Potter were deliberately breaking them.

I am sorry about not going to see Dad when he was wounded.  But once again, one must be aware of the politics associated with one's actions.  It would scarcely be proper for a junior secretary to the Minister of Magic to appear to condone shady activity – such as skulking around the Ministry after hours.  As for who attacked him, we have never denied that some sick wizards exist who attempt to follow the path of ... oh Hell, we said it was probably some crazy crank who fancied himself a Dark Lord, or at least an animal trainer.

And then HE came back.  Just when everything was finally so clear, just when Potter's duplicity was finally laid bare, just when I was basking in my well earned reward, Voldemort appeared in the Department of Mysteries and brought everything crashing down on us.  Potter was not a liar after all.  Potter was a hero once again.  Dumbledore was not a traitor after all.  Dumbledore was a great wizard once again.

We were right not to believe them.  How could we induce panic in the Wizarding World on the word of an attention seeking child and a dotty old man?

But they were right.  Voldemort was back.  My family had been correct all along.

At first I wanted nothing more than to apparate back to the Burrow, throw myself into their arms, and beg for my old room back.  But then I realized that I had a duty, a duty to provide the kind of stability the government needed – especially since Minister Fudge appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown.  And besides, what did I have to apologize for?  We had only done what was correct according to the best information available.

My activity with Kristen is over, leaving us both sweaty and temporarily satisfied.  Well, satisfied in the body.  My mind is racing like a Firebolt.

"Can we try more of that powder?" I ask softly.

"Cost ya luv.  First's on the house.  After that ya pay."

I hand her a wad of bills and proceed to inhale yet more of the delightful substance.  My thoughts accelerate, and for several blissful minutes they go so fast that I cannot comprehend or track them.  I simply allow myself to sink into lovely sensation.

But inevitably my frantic mind begins to slow once more, the images in my head coalescing around an unlikely figure.  Dolores Umbridge had been revealed as one of the worst bunglers in the modern history of the Ministry.  First she had admitted in front of Ginny and Ron that she sent the Dementors after Potter last summer.  I was shocked to hear that.  Much as I dislike the boy, I never wanted to see him destroyed.  She also was going to use the cruciatus curse on him.  That I can understand.  There have been times I would not have minded seeing Potter writhing in pain.  And it would have been for a good cause, after all.

Her methods in detention were unorthodox and illegal, it is true.  Once again, that can be overlooked as it was all for a good cause.  Potter had to learn not to tell lies!  And even if he was not telling lies, we had to act for the greatest good for the greatest number!

But she crossed the line when she approved public whipping.  And of the twins no less!  My brothers!  At the thought of the whips wielded by a gleeful Argus Filch cutting their skin I feel my stomach burn.

Worst of all she dared to set the Slytherins to attack Ginny and Ronniekins!  She had that filth lay hands on my Ron!

I close my eyes and try hard to calm myself.  But my mind, spurred on by the powders, continues to race.  Ron held and gagged in the hands of a Slytherin.  Ron mounted on a thestral – or what I imagined a thestral to look like.  Ron fighting deatheaters in the Department of Mysteries.  Ron lying in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts, where his Per-per cannot visit because Dumbledore has made it clear that Ministry personnel are not welcome.

No, that last is not true.  I have not been to see Ron because Fudge has made it clear that Potter, and by extension Potter's friends, will never be forgiven for this humiliation, and that no approval is to be shown without his express permission.  His hatred of Dumbledore and Potter has increased due to Voldemort's return.

As has mine.

I clothe myself slowly and make my way down to the bar.  Usually I have another muggle whiskey and then leave.  But tonight, sitting there sipping the drink, my mind speeding, I decide that I will need something else to see me through the coming days.

Voldemort is back.  Potter was right.

Handing over a bundle of cash, I take a few bags of the powder.  What harm can it do, anyway?


	14. The Wisdom of the Dementor

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating- PG 13

Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N: Well, Bellatrix pointed out to me that when I first posted this chapter on Christmas Day I left out a very important part of it.  I went into detail about Sirius' worries about Albus' view of Harry, but did not follow up on Sirius' worries about Albus and Remus.  All I can do is plead temporary insanity due to holiday overload.  In any case, here is the complete chapter, now including Sirius' views about Remus.  I hope you enjoy it.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Fourteen: The Wisdom of the Dementor

I, SIRIUS ORION BLACK, in accordance with the laws and regulations of the Ministry for Magic of Great Britain, and within the metes and bounds thereof, do hereby ordain the following last will and testament.

To REMUS LUPIN, know that I have loved you as much as any friend could love another.  That our time together was cut so cruelly short I will regret for all eternity, as I know you will as well.  Although it is little enough, I leave you the sum of one hundred thousand galleons, with the hope that it will ease your path of the unjust pain you have suffered.  More importantly I leave you the most precious thing in my possession, the guardianship of HARRY JAMES POTTER, my godson, who has been the only bright thing in a very dark life these past many years.  I also leave you the property known as Number Seven Dawnhope Gardens, in the City of Dublin.  This property was acquired by my mother as an investment a few weeks before her death , and to my knowledge has never been touched or sullied by the family Black.  Although I have never visited the house, I am told that it is very pleasant and that, like 12 Grimmauld Place, it is unplottable.   It is my dear wish that you may one day make a home for Harry and yourself there, far from the foul memories you both carry.  I go to my grave with the hope that the two people I love most in the world may find joy and peace in each other.

To ARTHUR AND MOLLY WEASLEY, I leave my gratitude for the love you have shown my darling Harry.  You and your family have provided him with the support and safety he has needed so badly through so many dangers and so much pain.  I name you the guardians of HARRY JAMES POTTER in the event that REMUS LUPIN should for any reason be unable to fulfill his duties.  I also leave you and your family the sum of fifty thousand galleons in a small effort at expressing my gratitude.

To RONALD WEASLEY and HERMIONE GRANGER I leave my respect and profound gratitude for the love and friendship they have given my Harry.  To each of you I leave the sum of ten thousand galleons, to be used for your own personal needs and pleasures.

To NYMPHADORA TONKS I want to say that you have been the only one of my relatives to have earned my love and regard these many years.  To you I leave the sum of twenty-five thousand galleons.

Finally, to HARRY JAMES POTTER, I leave you with the profoundest love I can give.  No father could have treasured a child as much as I have treasured you.  I await joyfully the long distant day when you may join me again, in a place where I may finally show your parents what a wonderful son they have.  In the meantime I give you the remainder of my worldly goods, possessions, and property, detailed in full in the appendices to this document.  This consists in general of the property known as Twelve Grimmauld Place, otherwise known as the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; the contents of Gringotts Vaults 324, 891, and 783; and various properties, both corporate and real, both Wizarding and Muggle, located throughout Great Britain and Europe.  It is my wish that you make Twelve Grimmauld Place fully your own.  Let all reminders of my foul family be erased, let the Most Noble House of Potter be created on the ashes of the Black legacy.  Should you find it too painful to continue possession of the House, I understand.  I only ask that you allow our mutual friends to make use of the property as long as they require, and that you then have the House completely demolished and the lot sold with proceeds donated to an appropriate charity of your choosing.  Just make sure the donation is in your name, not that of my family.

I also direct that ALBUS DUMBLEDORE examine all contents of Gringotts Vault 783 prior to HARRY JAMES POTTER taking possession.  ALBUS DUMBLEDORE is to use what means he finds best to render the contents of said vault safe for my godson or any other innocent.  In the event that any item cannot be rendered safe, I direct ALBUS DUMBLEDORE to destroy the item if practicable, or to remove it to some undisclosed location for safekeeping if not.

I have enclosed personal letters for all of you.  I hope that these better convey the messages I wish you to understand.

SIRIUS ORION BLACK

The following letter was among those enclosed with the will.  It was addressed to Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore,

I will not pretend that we have ever been the closest of friends, therefore I will not take the liberty of using your first name.  Dumbledore you have been to me since the first day I entered Hogwarts, and Dumbledore you will remain, even as I go now to a place of which even you have no knowledge.

I do not know the circumstances of my death, obviously.  Whatever my talents, divination is not among them.  However it seems likely that I will have died at the hands of Voldemort and/or his minions.  I will assume this is the case and press on accordingly.

First you should not blame yourself for what has happened.  I do not know if you will, but in case you do, I ask you to stop.  I have never been one to listen overmuch to advice, instruction, or orders from anyone else.  I suspect that I have died as I have lived, that is as a consequence of my own decisions.

Secondly you must make sure that Harry and Remus do not blame themselves.  Not knowing the circumstances of my death, I must necessarily be somewhat vague in this discussion.  But once again I am sure that my death has been in large part a result of my own choices.  If they are blaming themselves you must exert your utmost effort to get them to stop.  Both of them have suffered quite enough without carrying the burden of my life and death.

But that is the very thing about which I must speak now, Dumbledore.  You see, I have a certain suspicion, or perhaps it would be better to say a set of suspicions about the way you regard my godson and my best friend.  About the one I hope fervently that I am right.  About the other I hope that I am wrong, although I do not believe that I am.

First with regard to Harry.  You love him, don't you Dumbledore?  I don't blame you, I suppose it goes without saying.  It would take a dark miracle for anyone this side of Severus not to love Harry.  He is the most remarkable boy I have ever known.  James, wonderful as he was, could not hold a candle to his son.  That hurts for me to admit, but it is true.  James was the best friend I ever had.  I used to believe that I would never find anyone to match him, much less to surpass him.  I was wrong.  Harry has all of James' nobility, his courage, and his wits, with none of his arrogance.  

I am afraid that I have not been the best of godfathers to Harry, or the best of friends to James.  It has been all too easy for me to confuse the two of them.  I might have argued with Molly about that, but I know that she is right.  I even scolded Harry for refusing to take chances the way James would have done.  Yes, I have been a very poor friend and godfather.  For that I blame the dementors.  You see, when you are in their clutches time has little meaning.  Twelve years of my life might as well not have existed, and another two were spent dodging the Ministry.  I suppose emotionally I am all of nineteen years old.

Snivellus and I have that in common.  Both of us are only nineteen in our hearts.  Both of us believe that Harry is James.  I was in the clutches of dementors.  Snivellus tortured himself almost as badly as a dementor might have done.  Both of us have looked to Harry, grasping him as our emotional foundation.  In my case Harry has been the foundation of my love.  In Snape's case Harry has been the keystone of his hate.  

We have something else in common; we are both to blame for our fates.  I know you have shed many tears of worry and pity for Snape and me.  It is a futile exercise.  I chose my own fate through anger and haste.  Snivellus has chosen his through bitterness and resentment.  I know, I can hear you now.  You trust Severus Snape.  Oddly enough, so do I.  That is I trust him not to betray you or the Order so long as Voldemort remains a threat.  But I do not trust that he has the same goals or intentions as the rest of us.  Never forget, whatever sniveling he does, that Snape follows no one's agenda but his own, he holds no good paramount but his own, he pursues no advantage other than his own.  Although I have no confidence that you will listen, I send you one piece of advice from my side of the grave – once Voldemort is dead, waste no time in removing your beloved potions master from Hogwarts.  His loyalty is secured only by the threat of Voldemort.  Once that is gone forever, he will not hesitate to employ whatever treachery he must to secure his own ends.

However, I fear that you have a very different view of Remus.  You are baffled by him, are you not?  You think him contradictory, passive, even weak.  I have come to understand that many people see him that way, even Tonks.  Most troubling of all, I think he sees himself that way.

You are to blame there Dumbledore.  Oh, you did not mean to do harm.  You even doted on Remus in your own way – when we were students I mean.  When you made him a prefect you probably thought to bolster his self-confidence, as well as providing some sort of governor for James and me.  Yes, you made sure that Remus knew you thought he was one of your "good boys" as I described it to Harry on the night Harry was not chosen as a prefect.

The problem Dumbledore is that being a good boy was the last thing Remus needed.  It is still the last thing Remus needs.  Remus needed confidence, yes it is true.  But he did not need to be rewarded for denying and suppressing so much of what was and is essential to himself.  Remus has something within him that is most definitely not part of being a good boy.  He has a wild, beautiful, untamed thing that he has spent years denying and suppressing and controlling.  Of course I know that much of that was necessary; I have no more wish than the next man to end up in St. Mungo's with a werewolf bite.  But Remus went too far, and you encouraged him, even though you did not mean to do so.

Remus needed, and needs, to learn not just to control the wild, wonderful thing within himself, but also to celebrate it.  He needed, and needs, to leave behind his shame and fear at the feral beauty that lives inside him.  That was the real reason I became an animagus.  I did not want to "keep him company" as if he needed a companion at an art show.  I wanted to show him that there was nothing to fear in the wildness inside, that it was a thing of strength and power and joy.  I failed miserably, I think in part because I allowed James and Peter to get in on the act.  They meant well, but they turned the whole thing into yet another Marauder frolic, rather than the intimate offering to my dear friend I had wanted it to be.  I think that if I had managed to keep it between Remus and me I might have taught him to glory in his beauty rather than be afraid of it.

And so now he is not weak, he is not truly passive, but he is tormented with contradictions.  For you see, you made him a good boy when what he needed to be was a proud wolf.  You have created in him the desire to control and deny and stifle that which makes him strongest.  You meant well, but you did untold harm.

I never told you or Harry, but I was secretly very glad you did not send Harry a prefect's badge.  I was surprised, extremely so.  But I was glad.  You see I was afraid you would try to turn Harry into your "good boy" too.  You could have done it you know.  You still could.  Because not so very deep down Harry loves you too Dumbledore.  He loves you with all the intensity of a lonely boy who longs desperately for his hero to pay attention to him.  Like Remus (and Remus loved you more than you probably ever realized) he would deny himself for the honor of being your good little Harry.  He would do catastrophic damage to his own soul for you to look at him with pride in those eyes of yours (do you practice making them twinkle, I wonder?).

Harry does not deserve that Dumbledore, no more than Remus did.  Harry is a vibrant lovely thing, almost a spirit of living fire.  As I am parted from him, my deepest regret is being unable to stoke and nurture that fire.  I would have taught him, if I could, that it is not for him to be anybody's good boy, not mine, not yours, not anyone's.  I would have tried to take him from you Dumbledore, to wean him from that horrible, dangerous love for you that threatens to lead him down the same tragic road that Remus has taken.  Voldemort threatens to destroy my beloved Harry's body, you could crush his soul.  And know this, I would hold his the lesser sin.  

And another thing, I know that you love Harry, Dumbledore, but I am afraid that you will destroy him with that awful innocence of yours.  I was amazed this year when I realized just how naive you are.  I had thought that surely 146 years of life would alert you to reality.  But I suppose you have never known the touch of the dementor have you?  Nor, if I had to guess, would I say that you truly grasp the depths of the emotion that motivates Snivellus.

I came to understand that just this past Spring.  It was the day Remus and I informed you that Snivellus had refused to give Harry any more occlumency lessons.  I had thought you would expect such a development.  Well, maybe not expect it.  I have to admit that I was amazed when Harry first told us.  I had not thought that Snape would so casually disobey a direct instruction, even if you were no longer in residence at Hogwarts.  But you are Dumbledore the Great and Wise, and after I calmed down (which I grant took quite a while) I thought surely that you would have planned against such a contingency.  Therefore imagine my horror when I saw the surprise and dismay on your face, and I heard you say that matters had entered a dangerous pass.  I believe your comment was something to the effect that "We must now practice Alastor's advice about constant vigilance, and hope that Tom makes no move before we can retrieve Harry from Hogwarts."

In other words, you didn't have a plan.  You had pinned everything on your belief that Snivellus could act like an adult, even Merlin help us like a teacher, for once in his wasted and worthless existence.  In spite of everything, in spite of the repeated protests of Remus and me, in spite of Snape's five years of showing nothing but contempt for Harry, in spite of Snivellus' own continued commentary concerning James, you thought that, when push came to shove, Snape would be able to somehow put everything aside because it was the right thing to do.  I have to admit that the realization left me breathless.

And that memory truly terrifies me when I think of leaving Harry and Remus in your care. Have you ever heard of the wisdom of dementors?  Neither had I, actually.  It was something I read about in the _Prophet_, a theory put forward by someone who once served time in Azkaban for petty theft.  This worthy thief argued that subjection to the dementors left you in possession of a truth generally denied to most men.  He mentioned a Muggle philosopher named Nietzche, who once said "That which does not kill you makes you stronger."  I always thought that a wizard said that, but evidently not.  In any case the dementors teach you that the Muggle was wrong.  Things that do not kill you often leave you weaker; scarred, bitter, vulnerable, and weaker.  

I am afraid that you don't understand this, Dumbledore.  Bloody Hell, I'm sure that you don't understand it.  You have this romantic idea in your heart that everything can be made right, that all memories can be used as a foundation to healing.

But that is a dangerous belief.  Harry and Remus both bear far too many evil memories.  They are hampered by this, weakened by it, drained by it.  Does that seem like a contradiction, since I have just finished talking about how Remus and Harry must not deny their own identities?  But memory has far less to do with identity than most people think.  That is another truth the dementors teach you.  I am very afraid that you will try to insist that they face their pasts, that they draw strength from overcoming so much pain.  I think perhaps you even believed that about me.  Did you not say something very similar to me when I first took up residence in this thrice-damned house?

The past cannot always be faced, Dumbledore.  It cannot always be overcome.  It cannot always be transfigured into something useful.  Often the past is only an open wound, a story of horror and humiliation that saps strength and poisons the soul.

Some pasts must be faced, Dumbledore.  Others, however, must be denied.  Harry and Remus cannot face their pasts.  Take this piece of wisdom from one who has known the caresses of the dementor.  They each have pasts that can only be fled.  That is why I have left Remus both the guardianship and the house in Dublin.  I hope that he will be able to craft a safe haven there, a place where evil spirits do not abide.

I warn you Dumbledore, do not interfere with their flight.  You, in your awful innocence, would probably urge them not to hide from their pain, but to face it.  You would urge them to use their agony as the foundation for future strength.

But the wisdom of the dementor reveals this to be a vain and destructive delusion.  Let them flee Dumbledore.  Let them deny the horrible memories that would cripple them.  In your well meaning meddling you will destroy them, as yes, you have come close to destroying me.  

I have told you not to blame yourself for my death.  I also forgive you for my misery.  I realize now that you were an innocent, and did not know what you did when you condemned me to this place.  I think now that you have been curiously innocent in much that you have done, naively confident that all wounds can be healed, all damage undone, all pain turned to strength.  But now you have been warned, and know that I, at least, will hold you innocent no longer should you ignore my warning.  In whatever world to which I now journey, I will await your account of my beloved godson and my wonderful friend.  And if I find that you have allowed your horrible optimism to ruin their lives, I shall spend all eternity to achieve a reckoning.

SIRIUS BLACK 


	15. Boundaries

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/General

Rating-PG 13

A/N:  Hello everyone.  I hope that you all had a Merry Christmas and that the New Year is started well.  I just want to kick this chapter off by answering a few issues some folks raised with the last two chapters.

First with regard to Chapter Thirteen, several people mentioned that Percy seemed quite fond of Harry up to the Yule Ball in GOF, if only because he was famous.  I think that may well have been true.  That does not mean, however, that I agree that my sketching of his present thoughts is not in keeping with canon.  I think Percy is, at least arguably,  both an incredibly shallow person and an incredibly dangerous liar.  The reason he is so dangerous is that he makes up new lies constantly to justify whatever position he finds himself in, then _proceeds to believe those lies himself_.  I will reiterate a  warning I gave at the beginning of Chapter 13: Just because Percy believes something is so does not make it true.  I was speaking there, of course, about his beliefs concerning the relationship of Harry and Ron.  Here I will expand it to his views more generally.  Percy may well have been fond of Harry at least up to the Yule Ball in GOF.  He has now, however, manufactured a new history for himself in which he traces his break with Harry to something that happened much earlier.  Whether it is true or not is beside the point – which is, as I see it, one of the most disturbing things about Percy's character.  You see, he now _believes_ it is true.  After all, arguing that he has long disliked Harry for Ron's sake is much more supportive of his self-esteem than admitting his attitude toward Harry has been subject to drastic shifts because of suddenly changing political tides.

On the subject of Chapter Fourteen, I do have to admit, regretfully, that it was not one of my better efforts.  I agree that Sirius is wiser and more reflective in that Chapter, particularly the first part of his letter to Dumbledore, than canon will support.  One thing I will offer in my defense is that I don't think the letter is unrealistically prescient with regard to his assumptions about the nature of his death.  People in imminent danger of death often update their wills and last letters to loved ones every few weeks or months so as to keep them constant with changing circumstances.  I have seen many such letters from American soldiers and airmen written over several wars.  All of them exhibit this eerie prescience which is not really divination at all but merely the fact that the letters and wills are constantly altered to keep up with events.  I am told that this helps many people face the possibility of death, as they can do so with the knowledge that everything is signed, sealed, and "up to date."  In Sirius case it would not take much for him to guess that, were he to die in the near future, Voldemort and/or his minions would be responsible.

But, having said that in my defence, once again I agree that I made Sirius too wise.  In truth I had a hard time knowing what to with Sirius, since our knowledge of him from canon is very limited.  In fact most of the commonly accepted aspects of his character, e.g. his desire and tendency to spoil Harry and be extremely protective of him, are more fanfiction conventions than canon portrayal.  My own inclination is that most of the relationship between Harry and Sirius was based on a lot of fantasy on both sides, since they really had very little chance to know each other.  But that is a matter that my other fic "Here be Monsters," will soon be taking up (and as you can imagine, neither Harry nor some of the other characters are going to be very happy with that particular opinion).

So now I present you with a very long chapter.  It is long because the protagonist of this particular vignette is someone about whom we know an awful lot, and also because this is a good opportunity to explore certain events we don't see in OOTP because Harry is not present.  Enjoy!

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Fourteen: Boundaries

They send you away before they close the coffin.

I remember that from when my grandmother died.  They always send you away before they close the coffin.  Just like they send you away before they bury it.  Oh, I don't mean those few handfuls of dirt they let you toss in at the graveside, I mean the actual burial, the torrent of muddy clots and wet earth that pour into the wounded ground to form the nice, neat mound of a new grave.  It's the sounds, I'm sure, that are so terrible.  The sound of clots raining down on the casket, the sound of awful finality as the coffin lid comes down on its ornate, gleaming latch.  When we hear those sounds, those dull impacts of earth on wood or lid on latch, we understand that we have reached a boundary, a dividing line of existence.  Where once there was life now there is death and nothing will change that, not even waving a wand.

I remember the day I first stepped into Ollivander's and bought my wand.  I remember thinking of it as a key to possibility, a pen with which to write a new kind of life, a life totally different from the one I was leaving behind with so few regrets.

In some ways this new life has been totally different.  But in others it hasn't been different at all.  I remember the first time I opened Goshawk's _Book of Spells, Level 1_, and thought how marvelous and neat it all seemed.  And it has been marvelous, but not necessarily neat.  Well, _sometimes_, it's been neat, but… oh, why can't I ever put things clearly about real life?  I do it so well on tests, but when it comes to real things I always stumble and fumble and get confused.  Like when I tried to tell Harry and Ron why Sirius' endorsement of the DA made me nervous, or when I told Harry about his "saving people thing."

No, that last one is too painful to think of right now.  I'll keep my mind on today.  That's right, just today.  I can't help Harry if I'm crippled with regrets.  He has enough of his own.  I need to help him get past his own self-blame, not wallow in my own - which of course doesn't change the fact that I blame myself totally.  Why did I have to put that way? Why did I have to make it sound like I was criticizing him?  Why couldn't I have come up with some gentle way of talking to him?  No, I just blundered on, saying, "this isn't a criticism," which he of course took to mean that it really was.  And it wasn't!  Harry's bravery and generosity are part of what make him so wonderful.  It's just that cruel people take advantage of those kinds of things.  Why didn't I put it like that?

I never realized how much a school trunk resembles a coffin.  I guess that's why mine is still standing open, even though the morning of Leavetaking Day is passing fast.  I can't bear to close it.  I can't bear to hear that dull thud and know that another boundary has been passed – a terrible border marking the end of joy and the beginning of pain, the death of peace and the birth of war.  But that is selfish.  Why should I hold back from crossing that boundary, when those I love have been thrown forcibly across it?

The fifth year Gryffindor girls' dormitory is empty except for me.  Lavender Brown was the last to leave.  She stood in the back of the room while I carefully folded my robes and placed them in the top of the trunk, slipping my prefects' badge into a convenient holding pocket in the trunk's lid.  I suppose she wanted to talk for once.  We have had very little to say to each other this year.  I guess it isn't very fair of me.  After all, Lavender has not actually _done_ anything, has she?  It isn't like she actively betrayed us like Marietta Edgecombe.  And she has tried very hard to make amends, even joining the D.A.

Nonetheless she is a traitor.  And in that her treachery was the first of this long, horrible year, it was in some ways the worst.

Age often marvels at the naive beliefs of youth.  At least so I am told.  And certainly I cannot believe the stupidity of my nine-months younger self.  Was it really me, that silly female who came to Hogwarts on Welcoming Day, 1995?  Or was it some embryonic Hermione Granger, a rough draft still needing the final touches of the charcoal pen to take its final, true form?

What did I expect?  What was it about what Lavender said that was so shocking?  I remember being shocked.

It was the reaction of a naive prefect who blathered too much and thought, really _thought_ as compared to memorize and analyze, to little.  I preached about House unity, and I repeated what Dumbledore said about division and discord being one of the greatest weapons of Darkness.  I even sometimes quoted the Hat's song about the Houses coming together.

I believed in all those things.  I still believe in them, come down to it.  But I'm no longer so foolish as to think that such lessons are self-evident, or that the equations that govern my logic balance according to everyone's calculations.  

But on that September evening I still thought that some things simply_ were_, and that anyone not evil (like Malfoy) or ignorant to an astounding degree (like Fudge), or both (like Crabbe and Goyle) would have to recognize them.  Harry was to be trusted, the Ministry was not.  Dumbledore did not lie and was not crazy.  Cedric Diggory was dead and somebody had to have killed him.

So it was with utter disbelief that I first heard Lavender say, "I'm not sure I feel safe this year, you know.  I mean at first I thought Potter had to be playing some sort of game, but now after looking at him I think he's just gone mad."  When I turned to her, my mouth hanging open, she rushed to assure me that, "It isn't that I dislike him, poor thing.  But it's obvious he isn't all there.  I mean just look at him!  He's wound up tight as a spring, like he's expecting to be attacked at any minute.  What on Earth could hurt him here at Hogwarts?"

"Well," I said, finding my voice, "there was Professor Quirrell, and the basilisk second year, and the dementors, and that Deatheater last year posing as a professor."  My tone was reasonable, but I feel myself growing hot.  The other girls nodded at my speech, but Miss Brown was unimpressed.

"Really Hermione," Lavender said in a superior tone that suddenly, chillingly, sounded more than a little like Draco Malfoy's contemptuous drawl, "Try to be adult about this!  No one is saying that Potter hasn't done some impressive things.  But You-Know-Who?  Everyone knows he's been gone for nearly fifteen years!  Trying to scare people over bogeymen is not the mark of a stable or responsible mind!  My parents said that if it weren't for Dumbledore's political ambitions Potter would have spent this summer in St. Mungo's!"

Others from the female side of Gryffindor Tower had heard Lavender's raised voice and were beginning to crowd into the dormitory.  I looked around and saw with sick disbelief that several of them – not the majority, but still quite a few – wouldn't meet my gaze.  In the back of the room Ginny was watching, pale with surprise and anger.  

For a moment I was literally speechless.  I had expected the Slytherins to deny the Dark Lord's return – although deep down I was treasuring a hope that not all of them would turn out to be like Malfoy and his cronies.  But it had never occurred to me that there would be doubt about Harry within Gryffindor House!  I had simply assumed that the Gryffindors would rally around Harry as a matter of course.

Percy Weasley was a Gryffindor, so was Peter Pettigrew. 

That thought was as sobering as it was unwelcome.  And that was doubtless part of what caused the sudden flush of rage that nearly blinded me with its coming.  Hardly thinking about my actions I moved, no _stalked_, toward Lavender with hands half clenched.  "If that is what you really think, Lavender, then your head is as empty as one of Trelawney's crystal balls."

I heard gasps from around the room, but did not turn to see from whom they issued.  Lavender stood gaping at me, then began to swell like a puffer fish.  "See here, Hermione!  You have no right..."

"I have _every_ right!" My voice was actually hissing, since I was so mad my teeth were clenching automatically.  "Harry has faced down more Dark Magic than most wizards ever see their entire lives!  The entire wizarding world should trust him implicitly!  Instead those _idiots_ at the _Daily Prophet_ are lining up to kiss Fudge's arse!"

"Now I hardly think..." Lavender retreated a step with a look of confusion and fright.

"No, you don't.  So keep your big, fat, stupid mouth shut about Harry!"

"Look, just because he's your boyfriend..." Lavender started desperately.

"She told you to shut it, Brown." That was Ginny's voice, and it was filled to the brim with patented Weasley temper.

Lavender pressed her lips together defiantly, but rather than speaking strode out of the room in a huff, her nightgown fluttering like a dementor's robe.

I hold that image in my mind, smiling sourly as I finally pull the lid of my trunk closed.  It makes a hollow thud, just as I had thought.  One more line in my life demarcated.

My life has been filled with boundaries.  Perhaps I create them in my memory, out of a desire for neatness.  But some are real enough.  The day I got my Hogwarts Letter was one, of course.  But that is not the most important boundary in my life.  That honor belongs to the line I crossed on 31 October, 1991, approximately 8:30 in the evening.  I was hiding in the bathroom, crying over something Ron had said about me being a nightmare and not having any friends.  He was right.  I didn't have any friends.  I never had had any friends.  And I could see no hope of ever having any friends.  Did my love of books and learning come from a lonely life, or did my leanings and habits cut me off from my fellows?  I don't know.  That's one of those real life things I never can get neat and straight.  And it doesn't matter.  Because that was the night the troll attacked.  And that was the night, and the moment, _they_ came for me.

_My boys.  My darling, infuriating, baffling, glorious, incredible, beautiful boys_.  From that moment on it was Ron and Harry, Harry and Ron.  My life had suddenly been transfigured as completely as a random object in one of Professor McGonagall's demonstrations.  And it was the greatest miracle that anyone could ever want.

I lean forward against my trunk, my eyes squeezed shut against the burning tears that nevertheless escape and trickle down my face.  My heart feels like lead, so heavy is it with sorrow and pain and most of all love.  Love for my wonderful boys.  Love for Harry and Ron, Ron and Harry.

I love both of them so very, very much, but so very differently.  Ron is maddening and stubborn and gentle and adorable and handsome and so many other things.  He awakes fierce feelings in me that frighten me a bit.  Particularly the ones closely associated with parts of my anatomy, or parts of _his_ anatomy.  When I started dreaming about him I thought I was under too much stress.  Now I understand I was right, but that the stress wasn't from anger and frustration, but something else.

Harry is so very different.  The feelings he awakes are those of awe and wonder and amazement, coupled inevitably with pity and remorse and a kind of intense protectiveness that I suppose is like that of a mother for a fragile child.  

Together the three of us are so much stronger, so much happier, and so much more whole.  For nearly four years I basked in our love for each other, so strong and resilient, but also so comforting, soft and warm like a baby blanket wrapped around the three of us as if we were infant triplets nestled together in our playpen.

But that came to an end this year.  Not the love, not the loyalty, but the warmth and comfort.  The sweet optimism that made every setback appear, at least sometimes, like a mere episode in an inevitable progression of victory and happiness.

_They hurt them! They hurt my beautiful boys!_

They hurt all of us.  And the way the did it was by striking at Harry.  Harry the wonderful.  Harry the brave.  Harry the beautiful and delicate.  Harry, the lynchpin around which Ron and I structure so much of our lives, even our lives with regard to each other.

Umbridge, Fudge, Malfoy, the _Prophet, _Voldemort, Bellatrix, even Percy and Kreacher (and those last two are special treacheries) ground down on Harry like so many Muggle jackhammers.  And I, great prat that I am, did not fully realize what was happening until it was too late.  Until, indeed, the worst had transpired and I was forced to lay flat on my back in the Hospital Wing, staring at the ceiling and reviewing all the tragedies of this horrible year.  Until I understood the awful wound that had opened in Harry, the wound that radiated pain ensnaring Ron and me as surely as the spell of a dementor.

They took his safety, the thing that the Order tried to so hard to preserve last summer.  They took his good name, which he had earned with blood and pain and heroism.  They took his joy, banning him from quidditch, banishing him from Hogsmeade, impounding his Firebolt, the most precious physical link to the godfather in whom he invested so much hope and so many dreams.  And then they took Sirius himself.

Most of insidious of all, they took his sweetness, the gentle warmth he had somehow preserved in spite of his horrid relatives and all the dangers he had faced.  They, or I should say _she,_ meaning Umbridge, made him carve lies into his own flesh, causing his own body to betray him with hurtful mockery.  They robbed him of his faith in everyone and everything, or nearly everyone and everything, he had learned to trust and believe in with such slow and painful effort.

Of course, Harry's enemies had plenty of help.  He helped them himself, the great _git_!  That idiotic, blind, stubborn pride of his played directly into their hands.  He refused to listen to advice or seek help.  Umbridge was torturing him?  Did he turn to adults for help?  No, he would fight her on her own terms.  Voldemort was assaulting him with visions.  Did he listen to Dumbledore and persist in Occlumency?  No, he accepted them as truth and acted accordingly.  He was frightened and angry and hurting from dementor attacks and Snape's unfairness and Seamus' ignorance.  Did he seek comfort and love from Ron and me?  No, he yelled at us with words dipped in soul poison.  Sirius died.  Did he come to me and let me cradle him and weep with him and whisper soft, soothing reassurances?  No, he even now sits silently, staring at nothing with eyes so full of pain and betrayal and self-loathing that it breaks my heart anew every time I look into them.

Yes, Harry has proven himself one of the world's most stubborn, infuriating, self-centered, self-destructive prats.  And what I want more than anything in the world, what I would do in an instant if he just gave me so much as an eye-flicker of encouragement, is to pull him into my embrace and rock him and caress him and croon a sweet lullabye.  I want to wrap my arms around his quivering shoulders and then have Ron wrap _his_ arms around both of us.  I want Harry to let us treat him like the frightened, hurt, abused boy he is.  I want him to renounce his idiotic pride and dissolve in a flood of shuddering sobs, as he has every right to do.

"Miss Granger?"

I whirl at the voice, startled so badly I almost reach for my wand.  But my brain registers recognition before my hand can move.

Professor McGonagall is standing several feet away, her hands folded in her usual demeanor of efficient poise.  Her expression is brisk and stern, but with a softening around the mouth and a slight, surprising uncertainty in her eyes.

"Professor!  I'm sorry, I... I didn't hear you."

"Obviously." She gives a small but real smile.  "I'm glad you aren't as keyed up as Mr. Potter.  I wouldn't want to be blasted back down the stairs."

I frown at that.  Making jokes about Harry's nerves isn't very nice.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger.  That was uncalled for." Sadness floods her eyes.  

I manage to keep my mouth from hanging open in shock.  McGonagall apologizing?  It seems that unheard of things do happen.

"Are you finished packing?"

"Uhh... oh, yes Professor.  Do you need anything?  Has something happened?" I feel a sudden surge of panic.

"No, no, Miss Granger.  Everything is ... as well as it can be."  

Which is of course not very well.  How could it be, in such a suffering world?

"Do you have a few moments, Miss Granger?"  

I'm at a loss.  McGonagall is treating me like some kind of ... colleague?  A few months ago I would have been so thrilled as to hardly keep from squealing.  Now... I'm confused.

"I'm not sure, Professor.  The train leaves soon, and Ron and I want to make sure we walk with Harry.  To..." I trail off.  Why is it that, even after this year, I am unable to just bluntly come out and tell McGonagall the truth?  We want to walk with Harry so that we can use some very creative curses on Malfoy or his cronies if they so much as glance at Harry maliciously. 

"I understand that you are not the only ones to feel that way." The stern Scot smile is the same, but her eyes twinkle.  Not like Dumbledore's, of course.  But for McGonagall the soft sparkles are extraordinary.

"Really?  I don't know what you mean, Professor."

"It seems that many of your colleagues from the Defense Association agree.  A full battalion seems to be gathering just inside the main doors."

"Oh."  I had not expected any such development.  But the news floods me with a warmth that is most welcome after the sad chill of the last few days.

"Yes, Mr. Potter is once again a very popular person, it seems."  

"He _always_ should have been!"

"Yes, Miss Granger, I know." Her expression is very strange, suffused with something that after a few seconds I recognize as regret.  

"The train does not leave for quite a while yet," McGonagall continues, "I would be very grateful Miss... Hermione, if you would speak with me for just a few minutes."  She pauses and continues softly, "I think Harry will be safe enough here in the Tower."  She sits on my bed and looks at me with an extremely sad, tired gaze.

"Of course, Professor."  I move to sit on Parvati's bed so as to face her, but she gestures that I should sit next to her.

She is silent for a moment.  I wait for her to speak, not quite sure what to make of her reticence.  I have always respected the faculty here at Hogwarts, and seeing her so... human... is unsettling.

_But that is not true, is it?_  As she searches for words I realize with a shock that my attitude toward the teachers, like so much else in the messy real world, is not nearly so neat and straightforward as I would like.  

I did regard them all with awe at first.  And for the longest time I accorded them the automatic deference I had given my Muggle teachers.  But respect, that is a complex issue.  It seems that everything is turning out to be complicated.

I respected McGonagall of course, and Dumbledore.  I had the greatest regard for Professor Flitwick and Professor Vector and Professor Sinistra.  But Professor Sprout... well, I respect her _knowledge_, but for some reason I never seemed to be able to understand quite what she wanted out of her students.  I mean, I dutifully learned all the facts about magical plants and herbs.  I learned all the techniques she taught.  But it often seemed like she was looking for something almost, well, _mystical_.  Time and time again I would follow instructions precisely, only to find that my Shrinking Violets could never miniaturize themselves to the same extent as Neville's, or that his Prism Plants produced perfect rainbows whereas mine always contained slight imperfections.  And when I asked for explanations from Sprout (or, in fits of desperation, from Neville) I would receive pitying looks and patient lectures on the value of "sensitivity."

As for Hagrid, he is a dear of course, but I was shocked that they actually allowed him to _teach_.  And Trelawney just makes me absolutely furious.  How could Dumbledore allow that old fraud to be Hogwarts professor?  Snape, of course, is in a category all his own.

And after this year, I'm not sure I'll look at any of the faculty quite the same way again.  The way that all of them, even Dumbledore and McGonagall, were so easily controlled by Umbridge stunned me at first.  Then it infuriated and saddened me.  I mean, I knew of course that they realistically could do little against the power of the Ministry, not to mention the tides of public opinion, but to have their true weakness exposed so brutally was embarassing and _indecent_.  It was like discovering that your parents were frauds and charlatans.

That is unfair.  But so much of this magical world has turned out to be unfair.  And, to be honest, a little bit of me is all too glad for adults (other than Sirius and Hagrid and Professor Lupin, that is) to shoulder a share of the injustice.

"How are you doing, Hermione?"  McGonagall finally asks.  "The plural 'you,' that is."

"I don't know, Professor," I say slowly.  "I'm not sure I can even answer for myself, much less Ron.  And Harry..." I make a helpless gesture.

She nods sadly.  "I think I can speak for both myself and Professor Dumbledore when I say that we were concerned that Mr. Potter chose not to join us last night."

"Harry is very tired, I think Professor.  And surely he has a right, after all that's happened..."

"Of course, of course." McGonagall cuts over me, raising her hands in a placating gesture.  "We were neither of us surprised, I don't think.  Or angry, it should go without saying.  Just concerned."

I note the way she is putting things.  "Forgive me if I am being rude, Professor, but are you speaking for the Headmaster or not?"

Her lips narrow, and for a moment she is the old, stern Head of Gryffindor.  Then she softens just a bit.  "I have not spoken specifically with the Headmaster on this subject, Miss Granger.  However, I feel safe in saying he was concerned."

I start to speak, but catch myself.  I'm a little surprised by what I was about to say.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"  McGonagall raises her eyebrows.

"Just something... somebody... said a while back, Professor."

The only thing Dumbledore cares about me is my scar.

"What might that be, Miss Granger?"

I shake my head resolutely.

"Hermione," McGonagall suddenly softens again, "please.  I only want to help."

"I, well, I guess I'm not sure Harry would find that very convincing.  That you feel sure about... you know."  I speak reluctantly, feeling like I am betraying Harry.  But, damn it all to Hell, I'm sick of watching him stew in his own suffering and silence!

I'm not sure what I expect McGonagall to say.  But I certainly cannot read the inscrutable look she gives me.  Then, to my surprise, she looks away for a moment and I could swear I see a gleam suspiciously like tears in her eyes, even as her mouth settles in lines of unmistakable annoyance.  Yet I sense that the annoyance is not for me, or for Harry.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Hermione.  I do, Severus does, Sirius did.  Even Albus makes mistakes."  She looks back at me grimly.  "I think you can accept that.  Perhaps Harry cannot yet."

"That isn't fair!" I say, feeling a surge of anger.  "After everything he's seen!  Everything he's been through!  Why does Harry have to be a saint?  Why is he supposed to be patient and understanding of everybody?"

I start to cry then.  Who would have thought?  After all the cuts I've gotten from the sharp side of Harry's tongue, here I am defending his right to be foul-tempered and cranky!

And then I feel McGonagall's arm go around me, a little awkwardly but still there.  And she is patting my shoulder.  "Shhh, Hermione.  I wasn't criticizing Harry.  I wouldn't do that."

"Yes you would," I say, feeling brave and angry and tired and bitter and mean-spirited.  "He came to you when Umbridge called him a liar – A LIAR – on the first day of classes!  Cedric was dead and that _bitch_ called him a liar and you said she was his teacher and he just had to deal with it!"

"I did not... I tried to warn him Hermione."

"WARN HIM?  He's fifteen years old!  He isn't supposed to fight your battles for you!"  The tears are coming in great streams now.  "He had to watch Cedric _die_ and they stabbed him and put the _Cruciatus _curse on him and Dumbledore made him go back to those _people_!  Then he had to fight dementors and have a trial at the Ministry and Dumbledore wouldn't even _talk_ to him!"

"Hermione..."

But it is all coming out now, and I am babbling and crying and ranting and I don't care.  "He was so hurt and confused and angry!  I thought when we got back to Hogwarts everything would be OK because people would believe Harry and talk to him and try to help him!  I thought everybody would see what Fudge was trying to do!  I thought Snape would try to be a _little _better after everything that had happened."

"Shhh Hermione..."

"But then Dumbledore still wouldn't talk to Harry and he made _Malfoy_ a prefect... _MALFOY_... and Snape was as terrible as ever and Umbridge called him a LIAR in front of everybody and _you_ just told him he would have to deal with it!"

"Hermione...."

"And then she made him... she made him carve lies into his hand and OH GOD he bled so badly and it must have hurt him so much and _you_ took points from him to punish him even more and she banned him and stole the Firebolt Sirius gave him and she gloated, the _bitch _gloated!"  I'm crying so hard now my whole body is shaking.

McGonagall is silent.

"OH GOD!!" I can barely breath and I rasp out the rest, "they hurt him so bad and Ron hurt with him even though Harry couldn't see it because Ron hid it but I saw it I _knew_ that they were both hurt and I couldn't do anything!"  

McGonagall has taken her arm away but I don't care.

"They hurt them," I say hoarsely, "my boys, my beautiful boys, they hurt them so bad and I couldn't do anything and Sirius _died_ right in front of Harry's eyes and he blames himself and they HURT MY BOYS and I couldn't stop them!  I couldn't stop them!"

I sob and heave and weep, losing myself in an apoplexy of sorrow.  For long minutes all I can do is rock back and forth, trying hard not to vomit so hard is my crying.  Finally I am able to take a shuddering breath and speak once again.

"Why are you asking me anyway?  Why aren't you talking to Harry?"

I look over to McGonagall and see to my shock that she has buried her face in her hands.  Her shoulders are shaking.  Finally she looks up I see that she is, indeed, weeping.

"Well," the professor says, trying to recover the briskness in her tone as she wipes her face with a large, business-like handkerchief, "where to begin?  I'm talking to you, Hermione, because I doubt Harry would tell me anything of value."

"Probably not," I agree softly, "he will hardly talk to Ron or me.  Maybe Professor Lupin?  I just don't know."

"Nor do I.  Next I will acknowledge that everything you have said is just.  None of us wanted Cedric or Sirius to die, Hermione.  And none of us wanted all of this pain."

She is silent for a moment.  It is as if she is collecting her strength.

"As for Albus, and how he feels about Harry, you saw his face at the Leavetaking Feast.  What did it tell you?"

I did see Dumbledore's face last night.  And his eyes.  The eyes were the most important.

The Leavetaking Feast this year, like last year, was not in classic Hogwarts' tradition.  I had rather hoped that the Great Hall would be decorated in black in honor of Sirius, as it had been last year for Cedric Diggory.  It was not.  I suppose that political reality forbids honoring a mass-murderer, even a falsely accused one who never had a trial and who had died fighting for the good of the wizarding world.  As Ron and I took our seats I remarked on this fact.

"Yeah," he said glumly, "I guess it's a good thing Harry didn't come.  He'd just blow his stack over that."

"Don't you think he'll come down?" I said.  I was hoping he would.  Harry needed to be with other people desperately.

"No," Ron replied flatly, staring at his plate, "I don't think so."

"Well," Seamus said hesitantly, "at least it isn't all silver and green."

That was true.  Usually the Leavetaking Feast finds the Great Hall decorated in the colors of the House who has won the House Cup.  That would have been Slytherin this year, but the Hall was decorated in the same motif used for the Welcome Feast, that is with the flags and colors of all the Houses.  I had not thought of it up to that point, odd as it sounds coming from me, but I wondered what would be done about the House Cup.  Given the rape Umbridge had perpetrated on the point system, awarding it to Slytherin seemed utterly unfair.  But, truth to tell, I had a hard time caring about the dratted cup right then.  Looking around at the subdued students, I got the impression my feelings were generally shared.  Even the Slytherins sat silently.

"Subdued, aren't they?" Parvati commented, seeing me looking at our House's traditional rivals.  "I hear that they are badly divided.  It seems that some of them don't care for being associated with convicted Deatheaters or their allies."

"Where did you get that information, Parvati?" I asked wearily, "Professor Trelawney?"

To my surprise she grinned.  "Madam Pomfrey.  I went to the Infirmary yesterday to thank her for giving me that headache potion back during OWLS.  I heard her complaining to Snape that he should check the dungeons for clumsiness curses, because she had been weighted down with Slytherin injuries all week.  Goyle and Crabbe both took tumbles down the stairs in the Slytherin dormitories, and Millicent Bulstrode managed to get her hair tangled in her bed curtains."

"I don't believe it," Ron said, still speaking flatly, "a Slytherin is a Slytherin and will always be a Slytherin."

"I don't know, Ron," Neville commented to everyone's surprise.  "Zabini isn't such a bad sort.  Silent and kind of cold, but not really nasty."

"Yeah," Ginny agreed, "and one of the seventh year Slytherins told me the other day in the library that she thought Harry's ban was really unfair and hoped it got lifted.  She said that when her older brother first entered Slytherin several years ago things were a lot different.  Back then the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was fierce but not, you know, _cruel_ the way it is now.  Her brother even dated a couple of Gryffindors without anything bad happening.  She said things have been getting worse for quite a while, and got really bad when Malfoy and his cronies showed up."

I found my interest perked.  Maybe my hopes for some degree of House cooperation weren't so ill-founded.  But then I felt a wave of despair roll over my heart.  Important as unity may have been, I was too tired, we were all too hurt.  I just did not have the strength to care very much right at that moment.

Ron just snorted and gave his sister an annoyed look.  He has such a knack for looking cute and annoyed at the same time!  "Look Ginny," he said slowly, "I was thinking that Dumbledore might let Harry out of that place early this year.  Maybe you and he could..." he broke off as the staff began to file in.

They all look as tired and worried as I feel.  Even Dumbledore is walking slowly, with movements like an old man.  As he reached his chair the Headmaster broke off his conversation with Flitwick and looked directly at me.  I froze in shock.

After a half-beat of my heart I realized that he wasn't looking at me at all, but at the empty place between Ron and me, the place where Harry should have been sitting.  At first his expression was hopeful.  It wasn't his usual twinkling optimism, but rather a kind of desperate hope, as if he were longing to see something that he knew was not going to be there.  Then a great wave of pain flooded his eyes and he looked away.  I had never felt so embarassed in my entire life.  Seeing Dumbledore like that, so sad and so obviously worried, was bad enough.  But there was something else in his eyes, something I had seen in Harry's eyes every day since Sirius fell.  It was self-loathing.  I was so horrified I did not know what even to think, much less say.

Then he stepped forward and his face took on a much more familiar expression.  It wasn't the joviality tinged with sadness he usually expressed at Leavetaking Feasts, but rather the same stern demeanor he had worn last year.  The hall was already nearly silent and now might as well have been empty, so little noise was being made.  Dumbledore usually spoke after everyone had nearly finished eating, but he seemed ready to break yet another tradition this evening.

"Another year, gone."  That at least was in keeping with his standard practice, even if the hard tone was not.  "And there is so much we all wish we could call back and make right."

A soft sigh of sound echoes through the Hall, like a cool wind.  I was surprised to see Seamus looking hard at the table, his eyes clouded.  I stole a glance at the Slytherins.  There did indeed seem to be a break in their ranks this year.  I see with surprise that, unlike the other Houses, they are not seated by year, but rather Malfoy, Parkinson, and their circle are occupying the upper part of the table, glaring defiantly in Dumbledore's direction.  Whatever you might say about Malfoy, he evidently had found some nerve somewhere, although the gleaming in his eyes looked a little like tears and the expression he wore as he watched Dumbledore was a little – hurt?  I felt my anger rise. I had no idea what Malfoy's expression might mean, but it annoyed me to the point of violence.  Just where did _that_ worthless prat get off thinking he had a right to hurt feelings?  If Dolores Umbridge had put the _Cruciatus _curse on Harry he would have laughed like a maniac! 

About a third of the Slytherins were grouped firmly at that end of the table.  There was a noticeable gap and then the rest of the House, about half of whom seemed to be lost in thought while the other half alternated looking furtively at Malfoy and his ilk then returning their attention to Dumbledore.  True to Neville's observation, Blaise Zabini had abandoned his year-mates to sit half-way down the table, his arm thrown protectively around a fourth-year whose name I can't remember but who I recall vaguely is of the same "stand-offish but not obnoxious" type as himself.

"So much," Dumbledore repeated.  "I will not bore you by telling you what you have already heard.  Voldemort has returned, as I said last year.  I spoke then of the necessity of choosing between what is right and what is easy.  Some of you have yet to make your choice," for just an instant, so fast I might have imagined it, his eyes seemed to dart toward Blaise Zabini, "others have chosen and paid so very dearly," once again he looked at Harry's empty place with intense sorrow.  "Others," he went on, this time staring straight out into space, "will find that choices have consequences beyond your imagining."  There was a brief stir from the Malfoy contingent.

Ron's sharp elbow collided with my ribs.  I turned to scowl at him but he pointed toward the Ravenclaw table with a grin.  In the middle of a conspicuous circle of empty seats a veiled Marietta Edgecombe looked like she was trying to slide under the table.  Cho Chang, sitting next to her in the empty zone, glared back at me, but I ignored her serenely.

"I ask that everyone rise now and join me in a toast," Dumbledore continued.  "I give you all of those who have exposed Voldemort's return."  He proceeded to list our names.

For the next several moments I endured intense embarrassment as the Hall rose to toast us.  The split among the Slytherins became glaringly obvious, as the lower end of the table rose only slightly later than the other three Houses, whereas Malfoy and his allies did not come to their feet until Snape descended from the staff table and barked something at them.

"As for the House Cup," Dumbledore finally announced, "I fear that the many irregularities of the last few weeks leave us with even more heart-felt questions than usual regarding the final point totals."  There was a wave of laughter at that from everybody except the Slytherins.  Snape looked like he had swallowed battery acid.  "Therefore I regret to say that the House Cup will not be awarded this year.  Several persons have expressed concern over particular disciplinary actions taken during the past year.  Rest assured that the faculty will be reviewing all of these issues and will take appropriate measures to redress any lingering problems arising from individuals overstepping their authority."

I could not resist throwing a look in the direction of the former Inquisitorial Squad.  Most of them were looking like they would gladly commit murder.  Dumbledore's references had been oblique, but no one had any doubt as to whom he referred.  

For the rest of the feast I tried my utmost to ignore the empty seat beside me.  Several times I looked up to find Dumbledore looking at the place where Harry should have been.  His eyes were old.  And that bothered me most of all.  I could blame Harry, easily, for the pain of this year.  I could blame Ron and myself even more easily.  Most easily of all I could loathe Malfoy and Umbridge and Percy and... oh, dear, the list is getting very long.  But I did _not_ want to blame Dumbledore.  Dumbledore after all is the greatest wizard in the world.  The one wizard that causes Voldemort to feel fear.  To see that sad, old, look in his eyes filled ME with fear.

I am brought back to the present by the sound of McGonagall's throat clearing.  From the look on her face it is not the first time she has tried to politely break my revery.  

"Yes, Professor, I saw the Headmaster and the way he looked," I say slowly.

"Well, then..."

"But," I feel the words dragged forth as if against resistance, "I still don't understand why he was so _mean_ to Harry."

"Mean?  As in cruel?" McGonagall's expression is unreadable.

"Well, he did make him stay at those awful relatives of his, and right after Cedric died, too.  Ron said Mrs. Weasley wanted to have Harry come straight to the Burrow but Dumbledore insisted he had to go back to Privet Drive.  And then later he didn't want Harry to come to Headquarters.  He wouldn't even let us tell him anything.  It made Harry furious, and I don't blame him!  It was like Dumbledore was angry with him, but I can't imagine what cause he would have had."

"Angry?"  McGonagall smiles tightly.  "Not at all."

"Then why?"

McGonagall seems to be uncertain once again.  When she speaks, it is slowly.  "Hermione, you know that anything you tell me I hold in the utmost confidence, unless I am convinced that I must speak to head off harm."

"Well, yes."  I had assumed this was the case.  McGonagall just _radiates_ integrity.

"May I ask the same of you?"

For a moment I am stunned.  She is taking me into her confidence?  A warmth suspiciously like pleasure mixed with pride wells from my toes.  

"Of course Professor.  I won't speak of anything we talk about – unless it's really necessary to help someone or protect them."

"I'm glad you used that phrasing, Hermione."  McGonagall fiddles with the front of her dress.  It looks like she is trying not to wring her hands.  "How long do you suppose I have known Professor Dumbledore?"

"I would guess about fifty years." I am a little uncomfortable.  McGonagall doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who is sensitive about her age, but you can't ever tell.

But she just jerks her head up and down once, sharply.  "That is about right.  And how many times do you suppose I have ever seen him frightened – not just concerned or worried, but really, genuinely, afraid?"

I swallow hard.  This isn't exactly what I want to discuss right now.  But it would appear I have little choice if I want to continue this conversation.  "Not often.  Six times?"

"Fewer.  Once, when I was a student and Grindelwald was at the height of his power, again nearly sixteen years ago now, and this past summer."

"What was he so afraid of, Voldemort attacking?"

"Yes.  Particularly Voldemort attacking Harry."

"But that is an even better reason why he should have been at Headquarters!  Or even at the Weasley's.  Surely they could protect him better than those awful relatives of his!"

"I cannot pretend to know everything that Albus has done or planned or is doing or is planning, Miss Granger.  I do know that he always has reasons."

"That isn't...."

"Very satisfying.  Yes, I know."  Her smile seems more relaxed now – or at least relaxed for her.  "Albus and Harry are much alike when it comes to not talking about important things.  I sometimes want to shake both of them!"

The image of Minerva McGonagall shaking Albus Dumbledore like a naughty child is so strange, so unimaginable, and yet so completely in character that I giggle a little.

"But I can tell you a little more," the professor continues.  "You-Know-Who has been sending attacks against Harry's mind.  This latest vision of Sirius was just the most recent."

"I know," I say softly.  I understand how much Harry hates Snape – at least I think I do, although a couple of things he has said this week have made me wonder if I truly appreciate the depth of his feeling.  And really, Snape has asked for it!  I can understand why he might not care if his students like him, and I realize he has appearances to consider, but if he wants respect, particularly from Harry, then he needs to cease his gross unfairness!  But why couldn't the two of them have put things aside for the greater good, at least for an hour a week?  And why couldn't I have come up with a better way to try to get Harry to continue occlumency lessons?  

I have learned something about boys, and I suppose men, this year.  It is a lesson that is more obvious in retrospect than it was at the time, but that makes it no less painful and infuriating.  Put simply, most males have a mental classification called "nagging woman."  Once you get filed under that heading in their stubborn minds, they perceive most of what you say as meaningless noise.  I wonder if I would have been better off to have punched Harry in the jaw.

"Professor Dumbledore was concerned not to give the Dark Lord incentive.  If the Dark Lord sensed he could gain secrets from Harry's mind, or that he could spy on Dumbledore or the Order, he might have mounted a full scale attack on Harry's consciousness, even to the point of possessing him as happened with Miss Weasley three years ago."

"I see."  My hands twiddle about in my lap as I think.  "But I still don't understand.  Why wait so long to begin Harry's occlumency lessons?  Why be so VERY severe about trying to isolate Harry?  Surely Professor Dumbledore knew how upset that would make Harry?"

"As to the first, it is a good question.  We shall have to ask Albus soon."  She sighs.  "For the rest, I think Albus panicked."

"Panicked?"  My voice squeaks a little at the thought.

"Yes, panicked," she says flatly.  "I will be forthright with you, Hermione.  I have never seen him so frightened over anything. Albus is quite skilled in legilimency himself, and knows full well what the effects of a full-scale mental assault can be.  The Muggles used to have an operation they used to control violently insane people.  I think it was a low-boot-a-me?"

"Lobotomy."

"Yes, that.  Possession can leave someone deeply traumatized and mentally damaged.  The worst cases resemble people who have had muggle low-boot-a-mes."

I can't draw breath.  The image of Harry staring vacantly into space, those wonderful emerald eyes dead, makes my chest hurt.

"Luckily for us the risks involved in such an all-out mental attack are not negligible for the Legilimens.  No one would ever risk it unless they were quite confident that there was something definitely to be gained."

"So he tried to convince You-Know-Who that attacking Harry's mind would not be worth the risk?"  I try to analyze that proposition quickly.

"Yes."  McGonagall's smile is grim.

"Well," I expect what I am about to say will not be well-received, "I'm not sure that he really understands Harry very well.  Not telling him anything won't keep Harry from acting.  Besides, it made Harry so furious!"

"Hermione, have you ever wondered why so few of us are married?"

I blink at the non-sequitur.  

"So few of the faculty, I mean." McGonagall continues.  

"Yes, I had."

"It is a fair enough question.  Of the Heads of House, only Professor Flitwick has ever been married and had children."

"Professor Flitwick?  I had no idea!"  Tiny, funny little Flitwick, married?

"Most outside of Ravenclaw do not.  His wife died some time ago.  At present only two of the staff are married.  I believe you know about Professor Vector's family.  And Madame Pince's husband..."

"Madame Pince!"  I saw more of our librarian than almost any three other students combined, almost any five outside of Ravenclaw, but the thought of her married was... difficult.  

"Madame Pince's husband," McGonagall continues over my protest, "is a very successful scribe in Hogsmeade."

"Errr, do they have any children?"

"Who?"

"The Pinces."

"Six."

"Oh." Some things are _really_ difficult, not to mention somewhat nauseating, to imagine.

"In any case, I take it this state of affairs would be almost unheard of in a muggle school?"

"Yes." 

"It is fairly unheard of elsewhere in the wizarding world as well.  For instance I happen to know that most of the Durmstrang faculty have spouses, as do the teachers at the various North American schools.  Hogwarts, however, has always been highly demanding of its staff.  Dedication to work and mission are proud traditions."

"Yes Professor."  So much could easily be gleaned from even the abbreviated form of _Hogwarts: A History._

"Unfortunately it means that we sometimes find ourselves at a disadvantage when dealing with the emotional states of our students.  I think Albus quite simply didn't pause to consider Harry's reaction very deeply, and when he did he miscalculated it."  She looks grim.  "I also was guilty of that, earlier in the year."

"Oh," I exclaim, realizing to what she is referring, "you mean the first discussion with Harry, and the time you took points!"

"Yes.  I was frightened too, you see.  Umbridge took as all by surprise, as did the reaction of the public.  I don't think any of us expected much cooperation from Fudge at this stage, but the vicious nature of his, and Umbridge's, policies was not foreseen.  Nor, for that matter, did we expect the public to be so easily swayed to Fudge's side."

"Or other Hogwarts students?" I ask, remembering Seamus and Lavender.

"That was a nasty shock.  I received I few letters over the summer that I would never have believed came from Gryffindor parents were they not inarguably genuine.  With all that and the weariness and strain I felt, I must admit that I acted rashly and without proper patience with regard to Harry.  In my defense I will say that I was terrified of what Umbridge might have in mind.  When I heard he had blown up for the second time I was annoyed, but even more scared that he was playing directly into her hands."

"I know what you mean," I say softly.  I had been somewhat at a loss for how to approach that myself.  I did not want to give Harry total support, like Ron, for fear of encouraging his dangerous explosions.  On the other hand I had been dismayed when McGonagall subtracted points.  More injustice was the last thing Harry needed to face right then.  So I had balanced a dreadfully thin fence, trying to speak calmly while keeping my face buried behind a newspaper to hide my conflicting emotions.

"And to be fair, Hermione, he did not tell me about the nature of the detentions.  Had I known about that I would have acted very differently."

"What could you have done?"

"I don't know," she says calmly.  "Umbridge's methods were certainly illegal, and I think Amelia Bones and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would have reacted quite strongly to evidence of that kind of activity – although Fudge might well have simply overruled any action Madame Bones wanted to take.  Still, I would have approached Harry far differently.  As it was it was not until the next term that I began to saw students bleeding," her hands clench, "from their hands and knew something was terribly amiss.  You say Harry had to carve something into his hand?  What was the instrument?"

I relate the story of the quill briefly.  McGonagall pales and her hands stay clenched.

"I thought it was something of the kind.  Why didn't he come to me?"

"Harry is not one to admit weakness."

"I know." McGonagall is speaking softly now.  "That comes from those relatives of his.  If it is any comfort, you should know that Albus blames himself for that."

"For what?"

"He was the one who left Harry with the Dursley's.  Whether it was a good idea or not, I do know he blames himself for not better anticipating how such a home would have shaped Harry's attitudes."

So Dumbledore left Harry with those hideous relatives!  Yet another wrinkle in the story of the Headmaster and the Boy-Who-Lived.

"You have said," McGonagall asks, "that Umbridge admitted sending the Dementors after Harry last August."

"Yes."

"Would you be willing to sign a statement to that effect?"

A statement?  "Why, Professor?"

"To initiate a criminal investigation.  We could bring up the assault during her detentions as well."

"And her attempt to use the _Cruciatus_ curse on Harry."

"Yes," McGonagall's fists clench again, "that as well."

Should I?  Isn't this Harry's business?

And then I remember his hand bleeding in a bowl filled with essence of murtlap tentacles.  And his flat refusal to report Umbridge's crime.

"I would be glad to do that, Professor McGonagall."

I am downstairs in the Common Room surprisingly quickly.  McGonagall had already drawn up the basic complete, and we had only to finish it out and sign it.  She promises to send it to the Ministry immediately.

Ron, Ginny, and Neville are both waiting in the Common Room.  Neville is staring off into space, his expression grim as it has often been since the events at the ministry.  Ron looks like he wants to hit someone.  The skin around his eyes is tight with suffering.  Ginny nods to me, seemingly well composed.  But I see the slight jerkiness in her movements, and the way her eyes glide to the stairs leading down from the boys' dormitories.

I walk over to Ron, who smiles at me in that way of his that is so... Ron.

"Hi," he says softly.  His hand swings forward to brush against mine.

"Morning," I reply inanely.  Our fingers dance desperately against each other, not quite interlacing.

The sound of a trunk being dragged down the stairs causes all four of us to snap our attention to Harry, who is trudging downwards, his eyes clouded and his jaw set.  For a brief instant Ron squeezes my hand, and I his.  Then we move forward to greet our beloved, wonderful, wounded friend.

"Bout time, mate," Ron says cheerfully.  "If I didn't know better I'd say you were up there snogging somebody!"

Harry actually tries; I'll give him that.  He looks at Ron and shrugs a bit.  "It would be better than what I dreamed about a few nights ago, Weasley!  I dreamed you were hugging and kissing me.  Talk about something to turn your stomach!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter.  You aren't that handsome!"  Ron, however, is going bright red.  He is remembering, I know, that Harry was not really dreaming.  He had hugged his friend, and kissed him and wept over him too.  Harry was deeply drugged at the time.  Too bad, if he hadn't been he might appreciate Ron just a bit more.

"You OK, Harry?"  Neville asks softly.  

Harry shrugs again.  Wordlessly we gather around him, heading through the portrait hole to find the battalion McGonagall said was gathering.  Silently we draw close and move forward.

Another boundary crossed.  And this one is drawn in blood.

I just hope that it isn't marked on the other side with that sound.  The one that is so final.

The one a coffin lid makes when it hits the latch.  I really hope I won't ever have to hear the real thing.

But I can't quite bring myself to believe it.

A/N:  For those of you reading "Here be Monsters," my larger fic also set in this universe, you may notice that the explanation Minerva gives Hermione in this chapter about taking points from Harry is not quite the same as the one she gives Albus.  However, the two explanations are perfectly compatible and both truthful.  It is just that, as is natural, Minerval emphasizes some things while talking with Hermione and other things while talking to Dumbledore.

Also I have taken my stand on the infamous question of Blaise Zabini's gender and political leanings.  


	16. Conjugation of a Curse

Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/General

Rating-PG 13

Disclaimer-Main characters and situations owned by J.K. Rowling.

A/N:  This takes place the night Harry was attacked by dementors in August of 1995.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Sixteen: Conjugation of a Curse

My hands never shake.  _Never_, ever, not _ever_.  It's one of the things I take great pride in.  I, Mundungus Fletcher, have hands that DO NOT shake.  They did not shake when I was a first year in Gryffindor Tower; painting flobberworms to look like poisonous snakes to then slip into Slytherins' bookbags.  They did not shake when I was called on the carpet in front of McGonagall or the Headmaster on a near weekly basis.  They did not shake on any of the times, too many to count, when I was called before Magical Law Enforcement to give them an accounting of some alleged scheme.  They have never shaken on the two occasions I have been questioned by Aurors for involvement with Dark Magic.

I have to admit it was particularly hard to remain steady on those last two episodes.  Not out of fear, but out of rage.  I am many things, but I have never had dealings with dark magic, and I never will.  After all, those dark_ Shite _eaters killed my sister, Zea, the only one of my family who loved me.  And they killed her husband, Andrew, the only man other than Albus to ever give a damn about me.

Albus.  He is the other one who almost made my hands shake.  He's a piece of work, he is.  Oh he seems like a right duffer, all twinkly and distant and addled, but get him riled up and he turns into a walking lightning bolt.  Make that Jupiter, ready to throw his lightning bolt at anybody who doesn't jump fast and happy to obey!

Jupiter, now there's a reference most people would be surprised to hear old Dung Fletcher come up with.  I take a sip of my firewhiskey and settle down, staring at the table in the corner of the Three Broomsticks.  Madam Rosmerta, bless her soul, sensed something was wrong the minute I came through the door and plopped the bottled down in front of me.  

_Yeah, old Dung has depth's most people would be surprised at.  Quite the compost heap, he is!  _

I laugh without any mirth and take another drink.

_They might have kissed the boy_.

Where in world did that come from? I pour myself a double and slam it back.  A lot of things _might_ happen.  What's important is what _does_ happen.  The boy's fine.  Well, I'm sure he's a little shaken up.  I'm sorry about that.  I really, _really_ am.  I'm _sorry_.  Why does everybody have to make such a fuss?

Jupiter, I think, trying to cut off that unpleasant line of thought.  A reference surprising for me.  Of course, most people who know me didn't know my father.  He worked for the Ministry, in the same office as Arthur Weasley, in fact.  He had a great advantage though, being muggle born himself.  _His_ father had been a professor of Latin and Greek at... some school or the other.  In any case, Dad always had contempt for the way wizards approached Latin – as a way of casting spells instead of a language of literature and philosophy and religion and law.  "Like using a fine wine to water the garden," he'd say, sniffing through that big nose of his.  He insisted we, my sisters and I, learn Latin and Greek the _right_ way.  By the time we were six he was reading to us at night from Ovid and Vergil, spiced with Thucydides and Xenophon with the occasional dive into Seneca and Aristophanes when he felt puckish.

It wasn't nearly as bad as it sounds.  In fact I remember being astonished during my first year at Hogwarts when I answered an off-the-cuff remark from the Headmaster with a line from Sophocles (in Greek), only for the rest of the Gryffindor table to stare blankly while Albus roared with laughter. When I related that to my father during Christmas break he astonished me even more by observing that in my grandfather's day any well-educated _muggle_ would have joined the headmaster in laughter while the wizards would still have looked around blankly.  "Wizards," he said in another of his stock sayings, "are _such_ a boorish lot!"

 It really became something of an in-joke, particularly between Zea and me.  We had only to start a particular conjugation, such as the famous "Amo, amas..." and we would burst into laughter at a remembered joke.  My other sister, Sativa, never got these references.  But then Sativa had the mind of a flobberworm and the personality of a basilisk anyway.

_They might have KISSED the boy!_

Yes, they _might_ have but they _did not!_

Doesn't anyone understand that I didn't _mean_ the boy any harm?  If I had known dementors were coming I _never_ would have left!  I may be a bad citizen, but to deliberately leave a boy to face dementors alone – that is the act of a bad _person_.  The way Molly is going on you would think I had turned tail and run at the first whiff of the dementors!  And Albus...

I can't think about that.

Honestly, I meant to be right back!  We had watched the boy all summer and nothing had happened!  And it really was a sweet deal!

Well, I thought it was a sweet deal, anyway.  It turns out the cauldrons are flawed, all of them have dangerously thin castings around the lower seals (they got past customs due to a loophole in the law about the quality of imported cauldrons).  A muggle wouldn't even use one of them for a cooking pot!  I'll probably have to sell them for scrap at a major loss.

Somebody at the Ministry really should pay attention to details like the thickness of cauldron bottoms.  I mean, those things could be dangerous!

Anyway, it's typical of my luck – or lack thereof.  Somehow I have a wonderful ability to come up with schemes, and a disastrous record at actually making them into fact.  I always talk to the wrong person, show up at the wrong time, buy the wrong lot of "found" cauldrons, whatever.

Even my pranks never came off all that well.  Never one to challenge the Marauders, was Dung Fletcher.  Nor up to the standard of the Weasley twins, either.  Fine boys, those two, I think they'll do just great for themselves.  They've got luck.  You have to have luck.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, Jupiter.  There are a lot of legends about Jupiter, you know.  Most of them involved women.  Horny old bastard, Jupiter was.  Chasing after women in the shape of bulls or swans or waterfalls made out of gold.  He was a clever rascal, all right.  But there was one time he fell in love from afar with someone who wasn't a woman.  A beautiful boy named Ganymede.  He loved him so much that he swept down in the form of an eagle and carried him off to Olympus.  There the boy lived as cupbearer to the King of the Gods.  Was he lucky or not, Ganymede, beloved of Jupiter?  I don't know.

Interestingly enough, of all Jupiter's loves; Ganymede was the only one that Juno, Queen of the Gods, dared not touch.  Was it because she felt no threat from him?  Or was it because she knew that the love Jupiter bore his cupbearer was different from all his others – stronger, more powerful, more deadly.  Yes, it would have gone ill indeed with anyone, even a goddess, who dared to harm Ganymede.

Whoops, there went a little firewhiskey on the table.  The bottle must have a crack around the rim.  Yes, that's it.  Because my hands don't shake.  They DO NOT shake.

_Face it Dung, you would have been glad to have a mere lightning bolt hurled at you tonight._

I had steeled myself to see the anger in Albus' eyes.  I really had.  You have to understand.  When you've seen as much anger as I have, it's easy to get used to.  I even imagined, rather accurately, what those blue eyes would look like, dark as if clouded by thunderheads.  I had also expected the disappointment.  Heaven knows I got that from my father and Savita often enough.  After a while I don't think they wore any other expression.  Albus' was worse, but disappointment is disappointment, and like I said, I'm used to it.

But I didn't expect what he said.  No, I did not expect that at all.

There is more whiskey on the table.  That crack in the bottle must really be bad.

As soon as we got the boy bundled back into the house, I waited around while Old Lady Figg cursed me and whacked me over the head with cat food tins.  It didn't take long for reinforcements to arrive.  None other than Kingsley Shacklebolt, who gave me that "Auror" look.  I hate that look.  It says "You have done something for which I cannot punish you at the moment but doom is on your trail."  I didn't need that look to tell me doom was on my trail.  

Anyway, I took a deep breath and apparated to Grimmauld Place.  I opened the door, walked into the hall, and immediately found myself introduced to a wall face first.  I had the bad luck (of course) to step directly into the path of Sirius Black, who proceeded to bounce me against the paneling several times while screaming several very unflattering observations at the top of his lungs.  That harpy picture joined in, of course.  I hadn't heard such a chorus since the last time I was with my sister Savita's family.

Finally, Remus Lupin managed to pull Black off (I swear the man was literally frothing at the mouth) only to clear the way for Molly Weasley, who backed me into a chair in the hallway and proceeded to give me a lecture for twenty-five minutes without drawing a breath.  I took it without protest.  By that time I was in a state of mild shock.

Toward the end of Molly's lecture I saw we had an audience.  The twins, her youngest two kids, and that Granger girl were all on the stairs, watching and listening and looking at me like I had just killed their pet puffskein.  Honestly, the boy was fine!

_He might have been kissed._

But he was not!

And then Albus came in.  He had Arthur Weasley on his heels, but Merlin himself could have been behind Albus and no one would have seen him.  The man was projecting a cloud of power that a muggle could have sensed five miles away.  The picture shut up, Molly shut up, and I think the kids probably stopped breathing.  I know I did.

I stood up, because for some obscure reason I thought it would be better if I was standing.  He walked up to me and fixed me with his eyes.  His eyes held anger, and disappointment, and power, and – something else.  I told myself it could not be what I thought it was.  No, not Albus.  Albus would never have that in his eyes.

More whiskey on the table.  DAMN!

And then he spoke.  He spoke and he said – something I didn't quite catch.

_Don't lie, Dung.  You did catch it._

Yes, I did.  I caught it as clearly as I saw how he was holding his wand, pointed straight at my heart.  And as clearly as I saw what was in his eyes.

Hatred.  Albus had hatred in his eyes.

I had done what Juno dared not.  I had threatened Ganymede, and all the power of Jupiter was bent against me.

And then he spoke.  He spoke a syllable, that – that was the worst thing I have ever heard.

"_Cru..."_

And then he stopped.  He stopped and I saw, _I saw_, the pure effort it took him to bite the word in half.  To stop himself before he completed the word.

_Crucio._

OK, damnit, my hands are shaking.

And now I sit here, trembling and fearful and trying desperately to get drunk.  Now I realize what almost happened.

Because you see, it isn't the curse itself that's the worst part.  Oh no.  The thought of that is bad enough, surely.  I may have been a Gryffindor, but I don't relish the thought of the Cruciatus Curse.

No, the worst part is that I know what the word _means_.  Thanks to my pedantic father.

Thanks, Dad.

And Albus knows, too.  That was the meaning of the hatred in his eyes.

_Crucio._  A term out of Latin vocabulary found in Tacitus and other writers of the Republican and early Imperial period.  A term denoting general torture, often used to mean torture on the rack.  The ultimate root of "excruciate."

But it has another meaning.  Oh, yes.  And Albus and I may well be the only living wizards in Britain who know it, except perhaps for the odd Ravenclaw or maybe a muggleborn like my father with a classics professor in the family.

_Crucio.  _A term from Roman Law of the Late Republican and Classic Imperial periods.  A sentence imposed by a Roman judge in the case of treason.

Any child in the Roman Empire shivered at the sound of that word.  Because it was a fearsome thing.  When a traitor was convicted in the courts of Rome, the judge would rise, wrap his purple-lined garment about himself, and speak one word, both a sentence and a command.

_Crucio._

_Crucify him._

_Crucio.  _The word used to command the crucifixion of traitors.  _Crucio.  _The word that found its way into medieval Latin as a religious and ecclesiastical term.  A word for the worst death possible.

_Crucio.  _May you die the most painful death imaginable.  May all the sins of the world be hung on you.  May whatever gods there be turn their faces from you.  May you be exiled forever into the outer dark, there to scream in agony for all eternity.

_Crucio.  _The word that medieval priests spat at excommunicates as they were driven from the churches with whips.

_Crucio_.  The word of ultimate hatred.

My hands are shaking so badly that I cannot even bring the glass to my mouth.

Albus will forgive me.  He will give me another chance.  That is the nature of Albus Dumbledore.

But he won't forget.  And neither will I.

I found out what happens when you endanger Ganymede.  It has three syllables. _Crucio._

And something tells me that if the boy had been kissed tonight, no force in the entire universe would have stopped Jupiter from pronouncing them all.

A/N:  As "Mundungus" is an old word for tobacco, I named his sisters after other new world plants, _Zea Maize_ and _Savita Cannabis._


	17. Ice Cream Man

Author – Dzeytoun

Category – Angst/Drama

Rating – PG 13

Disclaimer – Main characters and background owned by J.K. Rowling

A/N:  For everyone who wonders why Bill seems to be acting differently than he did in Here be Monsters, remember that this takes place _before_ he learns of the contents of the prophecy.

DADDY'S FAVORITE

Chapter Seventeen: Ice Cream Man

Tuesday, 25 June, 1996

_11 32 GMT_

England is a cold country.  It's odd how I always used to laugh at people who complained about rain and mist and cool winds.  Weather was weather, how could it be any other way?   But after my time in Egypt I can't seem to get warm anymore.  Well, not without help, anyway.  Sometimes it's a glass of firewhiskey, other times its – well, let's just say that Fleur has many, many talents.

The sun is shining brightly as I walk out of the employees' entrance at Gringott's and stroll around to the front of the building.  It is a beautiful, warm day in June, but still I shiver.  Egypt isn't to blame this time, though. 

Diagon Alley is filled with small knots of people, some scurrying hurriedly along, huddled together as if against a fierce winter gale, others gathered in tiny groups talking in low tones.  Everywhere I see papers, mostly copies of the _Daily Prophet_ with its blaring headlines about You-Know-Who's return, but also a surprisingly large number of editions of _The Quibbler_.  A pall of fear hangs over the Alley like a low fog.  More than a few people look ready to hex anyone who moves too quickly or speaks out of turn.

Florean Fortescue's isn't doing a large business.  It might be the time of day – most people don't eat ice cream for lunch.  But I think it also has to do with the latest developments.  Reading about the recent events in the Department of Mysteries is certainly enough to kill any impulse toward frivolity or "childish" indulgence.

Dad is waiting for me at a small table near the main counter.  He rises as I approach, and I am shocked at how small he looks.  His entire body seems to droop, and his shoulders are slumped and rounded, as if he simply does not have the energy to hold them square.  Still he manages a smile that contains its old brightness.  "Bill," he says simply, a world of love and care packed into my name.

Now I feel warm.  Dad has a way of doing that.  I may be a professional curse-breaker, I may be a man who loves firewhiskey and dancing and pleasant female company, but whenever Dad speaks in that gentle, loving tone I might as well be five again.  Odd, how the "traditional" run of things was so backwards in my family.  It was always Mum that I turned to for practicality and whom I feared when I transgressed.  It was Dad who provided stability and comfort and peace.  Well why not?  They both just did what they were best at.

I reach over the table and take his hand because a grown man doesn't hug his father in public.  "How are you, Dad? I'm glad you could get away from the Ministry."

"Nobody at the Ministry is going to miss me today," Dad says, his features lightening.  "Sit down.  I got your favorite."

I look down at the table where two bowls sit.  The first is filled with Dad's favorite pumpkin-rasberry-cinnamon mix, and another has heaping gobs of strawberry ice cream with strawberry sauce.  The red is ... I reign in my imagination firmly.  You can't let yourself get carried away by suggestion in the curse-breaking business.  Many curses have a strong component of arcane parasitism, feeding on the power of the victim's own fear and wild terrors.  I quickly pick up my spoon and take a bite to emphasize my control of my fears.  It is, of course, excellent.

Dad digs into his dish as well, and thus we sit for several minutes, enjoying each other's company in companionable silence.  When he has finished about half of his ice cream, Dad puts his spoon down and looks at me pensively.  "Have you seen the twins lately, Bill?" he asks. 

"Which ones?  The Big Twins or the Little Twins?"  I know which ones he means, but the question has become automatic over the past few months.  I can't remember precisely when it started, shortly before Dad had his run in with Voldemort's snake, I think.  We had long accepted as the natural order of things that whenever you said "Fred" at our house the name "George" always followed closely.  It was never "Fred" or "George" but ALWAYS "Fred and George," or "George and Fred," as the case may be.  Just a few months ago somebody, I think it was actually Charlie in one of his letters, made the observation that one cannot now mention "Ron" without "Harry" popping up in the same sentence.  Very soon we started to refer to the "Big Twins," Fred and George, and the "Little Twins," Ron and Harry.  I wonder how Ron will take it when he gets home for the summer?  Well, being "Harry's twin" has to be better than being "Ronniekins."

"Fred and George," Dad says with a small smile.

"I saw them last week.  The shop is almost is shape for the grand opening."

He takes another couple of bites of his ice cream, not really looking up.  "They have come to dinner a few times since leaving Hogwarts, but ... well, Molly hasn't really gotten over their latest stunt."

"I know, Dad."  Mom has been alternating between rage and tears ever since George and Fred made their dramatic exit from school.  To tell the truth, I've felt much the same way – not that I actually _cry_, mind you.  But whenever I think about it, I feel a combination of anger and intense sadness, both of which make my eyes sting.  The anger has predominated ever since I browbeat them into telling me what Umbridge had been about to _do_.  I quickly turn my mind away from that image as my fingers begin to tremble, rattling the spoon against the side of the ice cream bowl.  Mom and Dad don't know about that yet – and I really don't want to think about what will happen when they find out.  

I mean its not like they don't have enough to think about already.  It's not like we _all_ don't have enough to think about.

"Molly hasn't given up on the idea of them taking their NEWTS."

"Yeah, I know.  But, Dad," I sigh heavily, "let's be honest.  It isn't likely that they would do all that well on NEWTs anyway."

Dad shakes his head, but with a wry expression.  "I agree.  But Molly's got a real bee in her bonnet."

"I just don't think arguing with them will do any good," I say.  "I've tried.  I said that, with Umbridge gone, I'm sure Dumbledore would make some arrangements.  It isn't as if people haven't taken NEWTs late in the past."

"No luck?" Dad asks.

"None.  I even said I would help tutor them a couple of nights a week over the next year, though God knows where I would find the time!"

He shakes his head again.  "The things we do for family, Bill.  But you and I are very familiar with that, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are, Dad."  I grin and take a final bite of my ice cream.  Strawberry ice cream brings back so many memories of Dad, and of the things that have happened with our family.

In fact, one of the most important days of my life featured strawberry ice cream.  I suspect Dad is referring to that day in his oblique way.  I was eight, as I recall.  The First War was in full swing, and I remember feeling frightened all the time.  I didn't really understand what was going on, but I knew that there was deadly business taking place outside the house.  Even at eight, I understood the world was a dangerous place.

Dad and Mum weren't around much.  Dad was constantly at work for the Ministry, while Mum scurried about comforting friends and pulling shifts with various overwhelmed charities.  When they were at home they both constantly wore worried expressions.  Things weren't going well.  There had even been some talk of sending Percy, Charlie, and I out of the country (the twins were still too young).

Mum was gone that day, for once on a personal errand to visit Gladys Mitchell, a friend who had been wounded badly in a battle with Deatheaters.  She had taken Charlie along to entertain Gladys' own six-year-old son, and the twins went as well because even then she had learned the dangers of letting them out of her sight.  Gladys would be killed two months later, and her husband would move with their children to Canada, but that tragedy was still in the future.  On that summer night only Dad and Percy and I were in the house.  I wanted Dad to play with me, or at least talk to me.  But he was enjoying a rare break from his duties with the Ministry, and was playing at dismantling some electronic contraption or other.  After a couple of half-hearted attempts to get him to put it down, I settled down to sit at the kitchen table and pretend I was interested as he unscrewed connections, unraveled wires, and chattered to himself happily.

Suddenly Dad looked up, muttering to himself about needing another screwdriver.  He flashed me a grin.  "Stay right there, Bill.  I'll be back in a second!"

"Ok, Dad," I replied wearily. 

He bustled out to the shed in back.  Ordinarily he would have been working out there, but as Mum was gone he had taken the chance to usurp the sacred kitchen table.  I was starting to feel hungry, but hadn't yet got uncomfortable enough to mention food.

A piercing shriek echoed through the house.  Percy, who was a few months short of his third birthday, had been sleeping upstairs.  He wasn't sleeping anymore.  Another shriek rang out.  Looking over at the back door, I saw that Dad did not seem to have heard.  Forgetting my promise, I slipped off the chair and ran up the steps to the room where Percy had been resting.

He was sitting up in the bed, his hair tangled and tears streaming down his face.  His breath came in ragged gasps.  I called his name softly, but he jumped and yelled again.

Not really knowing what I was trying to do, I padded up to his bed and sat down on the edge.  "What's the matter?" I asked, more abruptly than I had intended.  He looked at me and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"Bad man," he gasped.

"There isn't any bad man here," I said.

"Bad man!" he cried again, his tears beginning afresh.

I had no idea what to do.  "DAD!" I called frantically.  Percy just cried harder.  Finally, I scooted closer and opened my arms in an awkward imitation of Mum or Dad.

Percy scrambled forward and wrapped his arms around me so tightly I could hardly breathe.  Patting and rubbing his back hesitantly, I gasped, "Ouch, Percy.  It's OK, I'm here."

"Sowwy," he whispered between sobs, loosening his grip ever so slightly.

To my amazement I found that having Percy huddled against my chest didn't feel so bad.  In fact it was sort of ... nice, in a weird and rather wet (because of his tears) way.  Tightening my own grip into something that could only be called a hug, I started to gently rub circles on his back and whisper soft comfort words.  As I rocked him back and forth he stopped crying and gave a few gentle hiccups.

"Sowwy," he said again.

"It's all right."  I assured him.  "OK now?"

"Yeah."  He looked up at me and grinned.  Even back then, Percy didn't smile much.  But when he did he looked really... well, cute.  But I was totally unprepared when he released my middle and threw his arms around my neck.  His cheek felt warm and silky soft against mine.  His moist breath tickled my ear.  "Wuv you," he whispered.  "Wuv Bill."

"I love you, too, Percy."  I said gently.

After another few moments, Percy let go and crawled sleepily back under his covers.  I tucked him in and waited until his eyes closed and his breathing became gentle and regular.  Then I got up and walked out into the hall.

Dad was standing near the head of the stairs.  I had completely forgotten I wasn't supposed to move!  I started to say something, I'm not sure what, but he put his finger on his lips and beckoned me to follow.  I knew what was coming.  Dad always delivered his lectures from the stairs.  That way he could look me in the eye without bending down.

I trailed after him, head hanging.  I wanted to tell him that I hadn't meant to disobey.  Even more, I wanted to tell him _I_ was frightened, too.  Mum's friend had gotten hurt.  What if something like that happened to him or Mum?  What if they left us _alone_?  The very thought made my mouth as dry as sand.

"Bill," he said softly.

I came to a halt, still looking down.  I opened my mouth to plead my case, but then just closed it again. What was the use?

Then his arms went around me and I was lifted up and pressed against his chest.  I automatically looped my arms around his neck, just as Percy had put his arms around mine.  I felt the roughness of his whiskers on my cheek, and breathed in the comforting, musky scent of his aftershave.

"How would the best big brother in the world like some ice cream?" he whispered.  I looked up and felt my heart swell almost painfully as I saw his eyes filled with love and pride.  I didn't trust myself to talk, so I just nodded.

He carried me downstairs and, true to his word, cleared his Muggle toys off the table and produced my favorite strawberry flavor from the cold box.  Then he spent the remainder of that long, wonderful afternoon playing my favorite games and chatting with me as if I was one of his grown friends, even going so far as to answer my questions about the War.  And that look of loving pride never left his eyes.

That day I had one of life's most important questions answered.  I knew who I was.  I was the world's best big brother.  I would do anything to justify and live up to the love and pride I had seen in my father's eyes.

Now I sit and look at Dad – older, wearier, and sadder, but still the man I love and admire so much – and wait for him to speak.  We have finished our ice cream and are sipping lemonades in companionable silence.

"The Little Twins aren't doing so well, Bill.  Especially Harry."  Dad's expression is dark.

"I'm not surprised, Dad.  I'm really, really sorry, but I'm not surprised.  Is he taking it very hard, about Sirius?"

"Ron and Ginny say that he is."  Dad's expression is dark.  "I haven't spoken to him yet.  Neither has Molly."

I'm surprised at that.  I would have thought that Mum would have rushed to comfort Harry first thing.  Well, right after making sure Ron and Ginny were all right, anyway.

My surprise must show on my face, because Dad raises a hand wearily as if to forestall a protest.  "Molly wanted to talk to him, of course.  But we thought it best to let Remus approach him first."

That makes sense.  Remus and Harry share a special bond, now.  The bond of the loss of Sirius, best friend of the one and godfather of the other.

"Has he spoken to him yet?" I ask.

"I don't think so."  Dad sighs.  "Remus isn't taking it well, himself."

I'm not at all happy to hear that news, but I can't say that I find it shocking.  "I'm going to see Ron and Ginny this afternoon, Dad.  Do you think I should try and speak with Harry?"

Dad stares at the tabletop.  His instinctive desires and his better judgment are at war, I see.  "Do as you think best, Bill.  But try to talk with Dumbledore first."

I don't reply.  There is something else coming, and I am sure I know what it is.  I have never been more wrong.

"I am worried about Dumbledore.  I think he is making an enormous mistake."

"Dumbledore?" My mouth hangs open just slightly.  "What kind of mistake?"

"Where to begin?" Dad says softly.  "I think he is on the verge of destroying Harry, and himself."

"How?"

"Dumbledore is a very strong man, Bill.  He has very strong feelings."

"Yes," I answer slowly, "but what has that got to do with destroying Harry?  Do you think he dislikes Harry?"  That certainly is not the impression I've gotten second-hand from Ron and others.

"Oh no," Dad smiles sadly, "the opposite in fact.  I think he loves Harry.  But it is so very easy to destroy the things we love."  He looks so sad I am afraid that he is going to break into tears.

"I don't understand Dad," I confess.

"Dumbledore has tried to hold onto Harry so tightly that I think he has broken him.  It is an easy thing to do."  He blinks rapidly, but luckily does not actually shed tears.  I'm not sure I could stand that.

"How?  How has Dumbledore done that, Dad?" I speak more forcefully than I intended.  Frankly, I am somewhat shocked by the turn the conversation has taken.

"I think I'll shut up now, Bill. Maybe I should just let you draw your own conclusions."

"Okay, Dad."  I feel like I'm being sent on a dangerous reconnaissance mission.

Dad sits in silence now, his eyes slightly unfocused.  I wipe my hands on my jeans and chew my lower lip.  I want to say silent, I want it so bad I practically have to wrench my jaws apart to speak.  But I am the world's best big brother, and I have to try to fix this.  That's what best big brothers do.  We fix things.

"Dad," I say heavily, "how are things with Percy?"

His head droops and he rubs the bridge of his nose wearily.  I am stunned at how old he appears in that moment.  He looks so very old, and so very sad.

"Worse than ever, Bill."

"How can that be?  Now that Fudge admits You-Know-Who is back..."

"It isn't making any difference."  Dad rests his forehead on his palms.  "In fact Fudge has gotten so angry and paranoid that I'm surprised he hasn't sacked half the Ministry.  And Percy is backing him to the hilt, as usual."

"How can he _do_ that?" I splutter.

"Percy is very stubborn," Dad answers, smiling wanly, "especially when he thinks he's right."

"How can he think he's right?  He's just been proven _wrong_!"

"I know, I know," Dad holds up his hands as if to ward off an attack, "but he does not see things that way.  Actually, I think he _refuses_ to see things that way.  It would mean throwing away the faith he has staked so much on.  He is saying that the Ministry was perfectly right to be "cautious."  At least that was what he was saying yesterday when I managed to corner him for a grand total of ninety seconds."

I run my hands through my hair.  In all the confusion of the last few days, I've put off my usual six-week trip to the stylist and my mane is getting long and shaggy even by my standards.  Percy, once my beloved cute little brother, is now a walking wound.  I think one of the reasons I have been avoiding the Burrow these days is the Percy-shaped hole sitting at the table, dominating our conversation and even our movements.  Leave it to Percy to figure out a way to dominate by absence!  If I wasn't so angry with him I would be proud.  To be truthful, I'm still proud, angry or not.

"Do you want me to talk to him, Dad?" I ask reluctantly.  I have no desire to beard that particular lion.  But the world's best big brother can't shirk his duty.

"I don't think it would do any good, son, I really don't." 

I manage not to sigh in relief.  "I assume he's been to see Ron and Ginny?"

"No," Dad answers darkly, "he has not."

"Have things been THAT busy at the Ministry?" I ask, the upward lilt in my voice betraying my shock.

"They've been insane," Dad answers softly, "but I don't think that's the reason."

"Politics?" I spit, slamming my fist down on the table so hard the dishes rattle.  A young couple two tables over look up in surprise.

"Yes, Bill," Dad says wearily, "politics."

The urge to storm down the street and dunk my brother's head in a toilet is almost overwhelming.  When Percy treated Mum so shabbily earlier this year I thought I would never be so angry again, only to be proved wrong when he neglected to visit Dad at St. Mungo's after the episode with Voldemort's snake.  Now I find the boundaries of my patience shattered yet one more time.  Searing lines of pain trace their way down my forehead and the thunder of my pulse echoes from within my eardrums.  "I didn't think he would ever let that keep him away from Ron," I say softly. 

"Neither did I, Bill, but then I never thought..." his voice trails off and he shrugs.

_I never thought he would let that keep him away from me_.  That is what Dad wants to say, but he can't bring himself to voice it.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.  Where did it all go wrong?  I've been asking myself that so often these past few months.  Even a year ago I could not have imagined Percy abandoning Ron.  Me, yes.  The twins, easily.  Dad, with great difficulty.  But Ron, or Ginny, or Mum?  Never. Mum had been his champion in the family from the time he was born, and Ginny was the singular darling of us all.  But Ron had been special to Percy.  He loved Ginny and Mum, much more than he loved the rest of us.  But Ron, Ron he had adored.  It was the thing I used to find the most endearing about him, the way he doted on Ron, making up all sorts of excuses to play with our youngest brother, always coming to his defense against me or Charlie or the twins or even Mum and Dad.  In all the baffling, infuriating things he had done this past year, the one thing I was not surprised at was that letter he sent to Ron early in the first school term.  It was arrogant and prissy and completely wrongheaded, if Ron's account was to be believed, but still reeking of his protective affection for his Ronniekins.

But now he had turned his back even on Ron.  I would have been less shocked if the Earth had swung loose from its axis.

And I would have felt a great deal less guilty, as well.  You see, the world's best big brother was supposed to keep things like this from happening.  There is a great deal I could have done.  I could have stopped Fred and George from picking on Percy so much.  I could have tried to get Mum to stop harping so often on Percy's grades and Percy's prospects, building resentment among my younger siblings with every word.  I could have picked Percy up and shaken him until something like good sense precipitated in his brain.  All of this I could have done, but I was too busy, or away in Egypt, or annoyed with Percy, or amused at the twins, or just plain didn't think about any of it except as part of the perpetual and never changing background of life at the Burrow.

"I need to get back to the office," Dad says softly.  "I'm glad to see you, son.  When will you be coming for dinner?  It would please your mother and me very much."

"Soon, Dad.  Maybe tomorrow."  We both rise.  He looks so very tired and sad and worried.  I wish I could pick wrap my arms around him and let him lean against my hard-muscled body, drawing strength from me as I did from him all those years ago.  But his pride would never allow for that, even if we were not in public.  So instead I shake his hand and clap his shoulder, then watch him walk slowly away, a man bearing so much with so little help.

After he disappears around a corner I walk over to the counter and order two small pails of ice cream, Ginny's preferred Pineapple with Cauldron Crackles and Double Chocolate Frog flavor for Ron.  The smiling attendant verifies the Extended Chill Charms on the containers and puts them in small bag.  I hand over two galleons and then drop the change in the St. Mungo's collection box sitting on the counter.  Those have been proliferating lately, and I think it's a good thing.  The Hospital is going to need the money in the near future, with all the business it's likely to get.  Thanking the young woman and ignoring her pointed look of invitation (I admit it, I do have a definite talent with the opposite sex) I apparate to the outer edge of the Hogwarts wards.

It is a fine day, and I stroll through the school grounds wishing that I did not have such a heavy heart.  I used to love walking through Hogwarts' gardens, whether thinking or exercising or looking for female companionship or just enjoying life.  Today there are many students about, celebrating the pleasant period between the end of their exams and the close of the term.  But I sense no light-heartedness, no aura of celebration.  The students are gathered in tight knots just like the shoppers in Diagon Alley.  And like most of them they are obviously discussing current events, usually with copies of the _Daily Prophet_ or the _Quibbler_ spread out in front of them.

Passing through the familiar doors I take the well-remembered route to Madam Pomfrey's domain.  I had never been too good of a customer for our redoubtable nurse, but Charlie more than made up for me with his abundance of Quidditch injuries.  And now the Little Twins are easily setting a family record – if not a Hogwarts record.  I walk into the ward just in time to hear a strange kind of popping coming from near the far end, followed by a soft shriek.  I hurry forward.

"Ron!" Hermione's exasperated voice comes from behind a large divider, "quit that!"

"Why?" my younger brother answers in the same innocent way he always meets Mum's inquiries about broken items or missing food.

I pass around the divider just as Hermione reaches over to swat Ron.  Ginny is sitting on a nearby bed, obviously suppressing laughter.  A very fat woman that I recognize from the papers as none other than Madam Umbridge is lying near by, staring about with fear clouding her eyes.

"I see you really can get into trouble anywhere, Ron," I say loudly.

"Bill!" Ginny yells. 

I put the box down on an unoccupied bed and fold my sister in my arms.  She giggles softly and runs her hands through the ends of my hair.  "Has mum seen you looking like this?"

"Mum's seen me looking worse," I say mildly.

"Yeah," Ron says, "but I wouldn't go home without getting a trim, if I were you.  The letters Mum sent yesterday were pretty angry sounding."

"The Howlers you mean, Ron," Hermione says primly.  I note, however that the look she bestows on my brother is not exasperated, but rather exceedingly fond. 

"That is correct, Miss Granger," a familiar voice declares.  Madam Pomfrey appears as if ffrom nowhere and surveys her domain with pursed lips.  "Now, what's all this?  Madam Umbridge!" She walks over to the fat woman's bed, shaking her head. 

Umbridge says nothing, but allows Madam Pomfrey to resettle her on the mattress.  Her eyes are darting from side to side like those of a wary and frightened rabbit.

Ron is grinning maliciously in Umbridge's direction.  Hermione reaches over and slugs him lightly, appearing apologetic when he jumps.

I quickly unpack the ice cream.  Madam Pomfrey looks over and frowns with disapproval, but does not interfere.  Fortescue's has included some disposable bowls and spoons with my order, so I pass them around. 

"I'm sorry, Hermione," I say, "but I didn't know what you liked.  If I had I would have brought you something – and Harry, too."

"I'll share with you, 'Mione," Ron says quickly.  I stare in frank amazement.  Ron, offering to share Double Chocolate Frog ice cream?  Ginny catches my eye and gives me a twinkling smile.

"Leave some for Harry," I say automatically as they start splitting their treat.

"Oh, I'll save some of mine for Harry," Ginny volunteers.

"Does he like Pineapple with Cauldron Crackles?" I ask.

"H'rry liges ehmmy ih'md gof ih'ream," Ron answers around a mouthful of Double Chocolate Frog, "Heee 'umph hit!"

I take that to mean, "Harry likes any kind of ice cream. He'll love it."  I have long grown used to deciphering Ron's mushy words, as he seems to have something in his mouth at least one time out of three. 

I make pleasant and meaningless conversation, carefully observing the three convalescents.  Ginny seems completely recovered – at least in body.  There is a dark shadow of worry on her face, but considering everything that has happened I'm not surprised.  Hermione on the other hand seems to have aged a few years.  She has lines of weariness in her cheeks and her eyelids droop as if she is constantly mulling over dark, unhappy facts.  Still, I suspect that she will recover – mostly.  Ron, however – Ron fills me with dismay.  There is something bright and brittle about him, something that bespeaks fragile denial of the terrible reality that surrounds him.  His grin is too broad and his voice too cheerful. 

I toy with my spoon, keeping my head down lest the agony of indecision I feel show on my features.  I am the best big brother in the world.  It's my job to fix things.  But I am afraid, terribly afraid, that if I confront Ron he will shriek in angry denial of the truths I speak.  He will shriek and then he will shatter.  If we were alone I would try it, and if he cried and howled I would take him in my arms, pride be damned, and caress him until he quieted.  But we aren't alone and I swallow my fear in order to give a too-broad grin of my own.

After we finish I give the empty bowls to a house-elf undoubtedly summoned by Madam Pomfrey to ensure we do not clutter her sterile kingdom.  As I help Ginny return most of her ice cream to the chilled box (she has only eaten about a quarter of it), I take the opportunity to brush my lips against her ear and whisper "It will be alright, you'll see."

She looks at me with eyes that have aged a decade since I last saw her and nods gravely.  I give her shoulder a quick squeeze and hand over the box.  "There!" I announce loudly, "I bet Harry _will_ love that!"

"I hope so," Hermione says quietly, her expression clouded.

"Well!" Ginny announces with the fragile, false cheer you only hear in hospital rooms and at funerals, "Some of us have better things to do than lie in bed all day!"  She picks up the box and makes ready to leave.

"I'll walk with you, Gin," I say, giving Ron and Hermione a last thumb's up.

"Remember about the stairs," Hermione says in a prefect sort of tone.

"I'll have you know," I say with deep severity, "that I was Head Boy of Hogwarts for an entire year.  I think I can manage the stairs."

"Sorry," she mumbles, blushing.

I smile to show there are no hard feelings and follow Ginny out the door.  We walk in silence down a couple of corridors before coming to a small seat under a bay window.  She sits without being asked, and I take the spot next to her, fidgeting a little.  This used to be one of my favorite snogging spots, and being here with my sister is, well _strange_, to say the least.

"How are Mum and Dad?" Ginny asks softly.  "The looked awful when they were here!  We know how…"

"They are okay," I interrupt, unwilling to be carried away on a flood of words.

"And Percy?" The tone of her voice is soft but filled with a strange mixture of pain, bitterness, and hope.

"The same as always," I say shortly.

"He didn't come." She looks down at the floor.

"I know."

She absently brushes the front of her skirt, wiping away imaginary crumbs.  It's a habit she picked up from Mum.  "Everything here is just so… _wrong_."

"I know, Ginny."  I open my arms slightly in case she wants a hug.  She just keeps staring at the floor.  "How is Harry?" I ask cautiously.

She shrugs.  "Pretty bad.  He doesn't talk to me."

There is a world of hurt packed into that sentence.  I have the urge to track down the Boy Who Lived and break his nose for injecting that hurt into Ginny's voice.  But the urge passes quickly.  Harry has enough problems without an irate and illogical big brother on his tail.  And he did not ask for Ginny to fasten her hopes on him.  As far as I know he has done nothing to encourage her at all.  Which is part of the problem, of course.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," I mutter, not knowing what else to say.

She shrugs again.  "I broke up with Michael Corner."

"Did you?" I ask mildly.

"Over Quidditch."

"As good a reason as any to break up."

She looks up and smiles wanly.  She is so very beautiful, and I wonder how many boys have tried to get her into this seat, or one like it.  I repress the immediate sense of outrage that arouses.

"I don't know what Ron will say," she sighs.

"Ron will be okay.  He never did like Michael much anyway, did he?"

"Ron wouldn't like anybody I dated," she answers dismissively.

I smile, even though I know that isn't _quite_ true.  There is one person of whom Ron would approve.  He is short, has dark hair, and likes Quidditch.

"Mum liked Michael all right," I half lie.  She didn't really know anything about Michael, but she was prepared to tolerate him for Ginny's sake.

Ginny snorts.  "I don't need Mum running my life!"

"Who does?" I answer lightly.

We both chuckle a little.  Much as we love her, Mum can be a bit much.

"Do you think she has my wedding planned?"

"Down to everything but the groom!" I reply.  That isn't true either.  Mum shares Ron's opinions about a certain Boy Who Lived.  Dad told me a couple of months ago that she's started to acquire multiple skeins of green yarn.  She says she is going to make a blanket for the downstairs couch, but he suspects she is soon going to start knitting little green booties – to match the grandbabies' eyes, you know.

"I really do have to go," Ginny says sadly.  "I have class."

"All right, Gin." I reach forward and give her a quick hug. "It _will_ be alright!"  I'm not sure that's true, but the world's best big brother has to keep his chin up, else how would I ever help anybody else?

I see her to the head of the steps then we part ways.  She hurries to Gryffindor Tower to put up her ice cream before class and I retrace my way to the gardens. 

I stroll casually among the flowers, wondering what I will do next, when a soft voice calls my name.  I look around and grin.  "Professor Dumbledore!  It's so good to see you, Sir!"

"Thank you, Bill," the Headmaster says, coming forward from under a venerable oak tree.  He reaches into his robes and produces the inevitable bag of candy.  "Lemon drop?"

"Don't mind if I do!"  I take three, in fact, popping them into my mouth as the Headmaster falls into stride behind me.

He looks old.  I mean, he _always_ looks old, but now he looks like he _feels_ his age.  His skin has taken on the ashen undertone of a sickly old man, and his mouth, once almost always smiling, rests in a tired line.  Still, his step is as spry as ever, and the twinkle is still present in his eyes, although much dimmed.  "I take it you have come to visit Ron and Ginny?" he asks, and the twinkle grows a little stronger.

"Yes," I answer smiling, "and Hermione and Harry as well."

"Ah," the twinkle all but disappears suddenly, but then he pats my shoulder, "no one will ever accuse you of shirking your duty Bill, unlike some of us."

I have know idea what he means by that , but the praise makes my heart expand until it knocks against my ribcage.  Professor Dumbledore is the only man other than my father whose approval fills me with such joy.

"Have you spoken with Harry?" he asks.  There is something about his voice, something both odd and familiar.  I can't identify it, so I shake my head slowly.

"No, sir, I have not seen him."

"He is hard to find, these days," Professor Dumbledore says mildly, but a look of intense sorrow flits briefly across his face.

Fear grips my heart, contracting it as fast as it had expanded a moment ago.  Childish though it may be, I don't _want_ to see weariness and sorrow on Dumbledore's face.  He is out leader.  He is our hope. 

"Maybe it is best if I don't speak with Harry, right now?" I ask.

"I don't know, Bill."  The tone is in his voice again, the thing I can't quite identify.  And the sorrow is there on his face, even plainer than before.

Intensely uncomfortable and not a little shaken, I look toward the lake.  "I hear that Hagrid has returned."

"Yes.  Professor McGonagall should be back shortly, as well."  He pauses in front of a statue of a centaur, cocking his head to look at the statue's proud features with an unreadable expression.

"I suppose," I say slowly, "that Harry will be relieved to have all the mystery over You-Know-Who cleared up."

"Do you think so?" He does not look at me, but keeps staring at the centaur's face, "I wonder."

"Well, Professor," I say, feeling just a teensy bit annoyed, "I didn't mean that he would be glad about Sirius!"

"I know, Bill," he looks over at me now and smiles, then closes his eyes as if in pain or weariness, "but I did mean it when I said that I don't know if Harry will be relieved or not."

I have it now, and the realization almost makes me gasp.  I recognize that voice.  It is the same tone Dad sometimes uses when he talks about Percy, especially when he talks about Percy the Son as opposed to Percy the Minister's Junior Secretary.  It is a tone of aching, burning loss and of blame – blame of self.

We walk slowly back toward the castle as I ponder my epiphany.  Dumbledore and Dad, they are so very alike.  How could I not have noticed it before?  I see it in the tone of their voices when they talk about the children they have lost, the air of deep sadness that has fallen over once-jovial features, the weariness that rests on shoulders that are broad and strong but not powerful enough to bear the burdens thrust upon them.

What should I do?  What can I do?  I am the world's best big brother, and I'm supposed to _fix_ things.  Being the world's best big brother equates, in my mind anyway, with being the world's best son.  How can I see not one, but _two_ fathers falling apart, and do nothing?

But what can I do?  I don't know, and that simple fact weighs in my belly like lead.

We reach the steps of the castle and Dumbledore turns to give my shoulder a farewell pat.  For the second time today I feel the urge to gather an older man into my arms, to let him lean against me and find comfort and strength and _rest_ from the pain and burdens he carries.

Professor Dumbledore smiles one last time, then walks away, his step quick but his shoulders slumped.  I want to call after him.  I want to find the spell that will make everything right.  There has to be a way!

He vanishes and I stand there in silence.  There is no spell.  There is nothing to say.

Finally I put my back to the castle and walk slowly to the edge of the grounds.  I am the world's best big brother, and I can't fix things.

Fleur waits for me, and there is a bottle of firewhiskey in the cabinet above the sink of my flat.  Those should be enough to get me through the night.  They should be enough to erase the deep, sour taste of failure creeping down my throat.

They should be.

I apparate away, knowing they will not.


End file.
